—–These sentences, this speaking–all I say is drawing from an inexplicable source which is entirely outside of myself, and when the reader gets this, it is as if he is handed a searchlight and knows it should be trained on the heavens–or his own soul, or swept back and forth accordingly. Other writers know how to rearrange known quantities that, also, are not original to themselves; but their sources are merely copied, screened for use, learned in a strategy, absorbed by dint of seeking an identity; and even if they are prideful enough to claim a style, from the variety available, so that readers may recognize that all their books have a voice, that voice is simply career-wise. But my books are launched like rockets, immediate they go out of this world. They are synonymous with a person who has a source that speaks only to him. And not, I caution, because he is privileged; but because his source is privileged, and has targeted him as a witness. For it must speak with authority. Do not complain, I say, just listen for once. It is in the tremulous note of the highest expectation.
—–But why point to this difference, why not only produce these sentences? Well, because that is what happens with every thought I have, even the thought of distinguishing my craft from another’s (that is craft in multiple forms). Yes every inquiry and every pause turns back to glimpse where it came from, and timidly asks for support, or, in this case, boldly turns on some enemy. Explanations, skirmishes, it is these side issues that then run alongside the first inspiration, the purely novel set of ideas that came out of nowhere. As I said. And I cannot lose with this procedure. One cannot help but produce another, and heightened, example of the very point being made, in the explanation of what the difference is between its task and another’s. Theirs are delegated lives of self-aggrandisement. Mine is the creation of a road that leads to a monument in the desert, the tracking of an erasure, that then reveals a stubborn truth.