I am rummaging into my life. My dime store sentiments; quicksilver fears; old laughter—its all here. The vanquished powers of youth are next to a premeditated revenge, now harmless. A handkerchief embroidered via minima; reason denied, love ignored. The past is much like weather: I see where it hindered or helped. There were novels that set me back—Knut Hamsun; Malraux; and some that furthered—Ben Okri; Virginia Woolf; The Adventures of Augie March… One recalls seasons of learning…One winter day in Finland I discovered Neruda’s trick—how to make a wall of memory fall away. On the other side, the eyes, all the eyes were bright, wide, and curious. That was a single day from boyhood. Despair forgets. Again I’m spinning the globe in secret while my family sleeps. The worn objects of wisdom are all about. As Auden said, time makes old formulas look strange.
Planet of the Blind 