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.
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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.)
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Debussy. All those little fingers tracing the insides of clouds.
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Snakes have advantaged dolor.
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Ah Candide! You are the refutation of Freud’s super-ego.
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I’ve been dreaming a good deal about a long dead friend.
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A warlock hair grows from my nose.
Planet of the Blind 