The Art of Fiction No. 126
“You really can’t write unless you read. You have to know what the game is all about.”
“You really can’t write unless you read. You have to know what the game is all about.”
I was slapped and hurried along in the private applause of birth—I think I remember this. Well, I imagine it anyway—the blind boy’s rose-and-milk-and-gray-walled (and salty)
The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.
I’ll compare Jew-love to Roman light,
stone palazzi in travellers’ perspectives
obelisks and domes,