——It seems (to me) like only with writers does the lament occur: where is my audience? The artist can paint pictures that no one looks at, and the musician can play to empty rooms. But the author is continually plagued with the idea that his writing doesn’t even exist, until someone lays their eyes upon it. Thus when I wonder about my existence as an author, when I doubt if I have been heard, I must hurriedly reflect on any previous success.  Pathetic as I am,  I luxuriate in the memory of small audiences I have cornered, people I have read aloud to, and I take to imagining the readership, scattered and vague as it is, gained in a few publishing efforts. But then I immediately panic, shudder at the thought that my current work, notebooks of utter urgency and originality, are invisible, unseen, and may never be seen because I am not guaranteed any audience in a future spiraling out reach. The urgency is increased, as those to whom it seems most vitally addressed . . . are distracted and lured away. Only a writer (I think) suffers this ignominy, and wrestles with this threat of oblivion.
——While artists laughingly pile up their finished canvases, almost gloating that no one is there to see them at the moment, because they are working for all time, their imagery is transhistorical, it exists as a material object.  Nothing can really destroy their work, that is the mood they bring into the studio.  And musicians! Even more outrageously free are musicians, who play to their hearts content before audiences large and small, and in effect mostly to themselves–for they are vital, they are alive, and must concentrate, hear back and respond to their own work in the moment. Music is so much in the present moment, how can it even care what endures, being of a transitory nature itself?
——Yes (I sadly conclude) only writers are worried about the lasting impact of their sentences, the durability of their ideas, and only authors try to position themselves, ridiculous as they must often look, as needful and needing to know that their reputation is secure enough, say, to keep their work in print.  So that even if the current generation is deaf, distracted by life, a future people will find them, somehow. Authors must have their own, tremulous ways of establishing they have succeeded. Often I get so worried that I am irrelevant, that I can’t even write at all, it’s like I am adding to some eventual huge bonfire, and I refuse to participate any further in my own destruction, in the irony, and virtual size, of my utter and lasting failure in the world. Isn’t that twisted logic! Like if I wrote less it would be less of a loss, once it happens that it is all gone. Actually, that could be the psychology behind alot of people who decide to not even try to contribute at all (as if they could) to the . . . library–where all literature is theoretically stored!
——I see people walking by the library every day, casting confused looks, bittersweet glances . . . . for they perhaps do not know, anymore, what is in there . . . in the library perched, teetering  on the stone aqueduct, over the raging river.

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