——-I cannot figure out how people get along without an accompanying deep inquiry, how they seem to just live, accumulate a narrative of their own life and yet never put this life against the shuddering backdrop, the question of their own person. My writing represents that question, which did not randomly intrude one day (like in adolescence, or in a creative writing seminar), but was there at the irretrievable dawn of a being foisted off on the world. I feel I sprung out of some impetuous uniqueness–that’s it! Which consequently I can only imagine must have been needed, especially for this place. Therefore my story is vital, it must be taken as significant. With such a sense of importance did I arrive, blameless in life!  How, I wonder, do other people live without the important shadow self of their own sustained inquiry?  Why do they all not have an ungainly, blushing, imperfect record trailing along with them?  If I make to discuss this, anyone is going to reply that, yes, sure, they understand, and they surely do have such a beseeching, shadow self. But where is the evidence on their part? Do they never have time to jot down a odd refection, that seems to set them apart? Or pipe up in a small party, some night, of their peers? Is it the case that life meets them so squarely, that they are every day used up in the act of living? And there is no space, no compulsion to express the general situation? My compulsion—it is just automatic. It traces back too far already, and yet projects wild futures. Why others were not born in crisis I do not know. My crisis, I have noted, is not of a garden variety. And will not be hijacked. I will not be found, nor championed by either literature or philosophy–the one, I know would make a celebrity out of what personality it found, lurking in a casual style of expression; and the other, horror of horrors, would make and package up a representative human, out of my singular consciousness.