Notebook December 12

I must admit I don’t care very much about writers’ homes. I wouldn’t want to go on a literary house tour and while I understand why a visit to Virginia Woolf’s house or Melville’s Arrowhead is captivating for some readers I’m not one of them.

**

I’m not contemptuous. If looking at Emily Dickinson’s bedroom gets you going, well by all means.

The rooms in which I write are without distinction.

(Yes, my critic, you will say “it shows” and perhaps mean it.)

**

Debussy. All those little fingers tracing the insides of clouds.

**

Snakes have advantaged dolor.

**

Ah Candide! You are the refutation of Freud’s super-ego.

**

I’ve been dreaming a good deal about a long dead friend.

**

A warlock hair grows from my nose.

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