Evidently, I only wish to work on this writing in complete isolation, drawing the shades even, in the daytime, and then opening them to the night sky and the radio towers blinking outside of my office, on Pinnacle Hill; symbolic actions, evidently, but obviously indicating that I want no readers, or rather want no thought of readers, but to keep certain topics secret. It’s as if I had been hurt by direct exposure, in the past–and the very thought of the prying eyes of a reader seizes me with fear of condemnation. Colossal themes, like the one about the New Testament gospel writers, which I thought for a long time might coalesce and become a full-fledged play, seem to blossom only when I am free to roam about in my established routine; they seem to require this total isolation, because, if I consider, even just casually consider, testing out a paragraph or two on the public–and I can get to the public, you can be sure of that!, well I freeze; it becomes a different thing, the writing, from that point on, an ungainly annoying task. Even if I talk about this topic, I can make no sense with it, because the sound is turned off in the room, when I start to speak. I actually just considered going back and getting some of those notes about the gospel writers, in order see if they would fly here, in this tentative and still forming series of paragraphs. And when I had the thought, an invisible hand came out of the darkness and grabbed my wrist, and said, “stop!” Well, more gently, it said, “desist, you fool”. Because, evidently, as soon as I treat this previous material, and maybe anything else in my vast and expanding notebook!, as if I were preparing it for publication, it is like I become actually a monster in its regard, certainly not the happy scribe who first fashioned it, but now a desperate man who can’t wait to get it out there, and have somebody rifle through it. What can readers do, but degrade what they get their eyes on? Though maybe, even here I am preparing a subterfuge, being very sly by simply introducing the fact that there is such a work in my notebooks; and giving the readers (for, oh I know I have readers alright, why do you think I moved to this obscure street and adopted such a narrow routine?), in spite of my own fears, the tiniest glimpse of it. So they can go imagine what such a play, called The Gospel Writers might be. Then, later, I will come along and bring it back up, for I am no doubt in possession of a highly original view of this matter, of the New Testament gospel writers–and the other writers in the gospel genre, for it was a whole genre back then, new to literature, well!, new to more than literature! Evidently, if you just mention something, even though you are not prepared to really discuss it this evening–you will be surprised how much easier it is to talk about it, when you bring it back, on some other evening. This time it has a great advantage in that it can be referred to, it is an established reference, has gotten some cache, by being a reference, and not some grubby, ill-established current issue. Thus the subterfuge is complete, you see. You never want to be caught holding the bag on the main topic, I have learned, but you want to be dealing things in sideways. Let somebody else be crucified. Yes, referring to something is completely different than dealing with it directly, I have found. And I have to admit sometimes I drop in topics and swerve away from them, just so that I may bring them back. Devious, eh? No, everybody does this, that is why so many people start sentences like, “I was thinking about,” or “as I was saying to my wife the other day,” to introduce a topic, when in fact they probably just came up with the thought–certainly they just came up with the inspiration to talk about it. But they don’t say, “now, listen, clear the dishes, we must deal with the the question of the four gospels writers tonight.” No, you want to sidle into it, come to it like it were a digression, as if you were getting back to it. And, since nothing else is going on . . .

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