Reflections of a working writer and reader
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. William Faulkner
Emmonsail’s Heath in Winter I love to see the old heath’s withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling, While the old heron from the lonely lake Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing, An oddling crow in idle motion swing On the half-rotten ash-tree’s topmost twig, Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes […]
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