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Tonsils and the Forties
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At the end of W.W. II I was five and by the time of the Korean War I was ten. In that decade I was shaped and configured by my environment for the rest of my days. In the Forties I was most unaware of my self, impassive and passive, a receptacle for what I […]
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I’m Here, for the Time Being
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What an interesting thing, for lack of better words, to self-observe that the time left is shorter than the time I have lived. I associate to the lines in Julius Caesar that mark Cassius as a man who “dost think too much.” I think too much, too much. I remember my mother many decades ago […]
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On Defoe, London and Stevenson
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For some latent psychological reason, still dimly unaware to me, I’ve returned to a few books from my college days. Perhaps it is a return to the womb. The magic of the books when first read did not reappear again, not to be recaptured, my folly. I was disappointed. I had thought they were crackerjack when […]
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After Reading a Few Pages of London’s The Sea Wolf
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3 AM Musings From a literary friend and editor of an online mag a response to “Archipelago,” one of the stories I am working on now for my next book. Beyond the pale, beyond good or bad taste, it just exists, a written splat thrown up into the sky, hanging there insolently. As I try to hit […]