“Spring always new forms of life, from the soul of man that is joined to the soul of stone; Out of the meaningless practical shapes of all that is living or lifeless, Joined with the artist’s eye, new life, new form, new colour. Out of the sea of sound the life of music….” T.S. Eliot Many thoughts you have to
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(on slowness) Many people believe we are living in one of the most stressful times in history. The stress isn’t about being eaten by dinosaurs or how we’ll escape the marauding Vikings. People are now eaten by schedules and crushing poverty. A friend of mine said recently the modern family is living life at an abusive pace. And writing takes
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“I will sit still and let the marvels and the adventures settle on me like flies. There are plenty of them, I assure you. The world will never starve for want of wonders, but only for want of wonder.” –G.K. Chesterton (on my small, slow faith…) Sometimes I feel like a wisp of wind next to the overwhelming breeze of others’ faith.
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“I must write on the novel again. It’s got to be finished. All it needs is my attention.” And that was as far as I got last night before falling asleep. And in listening to That Distant Land on my run this morning, Wendell Berry’s collection of Port William short stories about the colorful folks in a small Kentucky community around the
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“This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: Must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple, “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and lightest hour must
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