LETTERS 

The writer knew he was in the provinces. It was where disillusionment was transformed and not allowed to gain the upperhand. The provinces were not the center. It was the center where reality was a given set of expressions on a scabby bus. In the provinces were the people who attempted to live out every great myth, kicking and scratching as they went. They were driven by images of success, images of meaning, images of limitations and potential. Great people, the writer wanted to shout, I love you! Make the myths real!

Speech came out. The writer listened to speech. Good speech would spear into his mind and unravel image after image until they were raised to the value of a truth. Even the sentimental ones had something the writer grasped as real.

But writer, they asked, how are you going to make a living?

'I can't make a living,' he said to them. 'Not through poetry which is pursued in what is lost in life. Poetry pursues and transforms what is lost so all energy is used; there is no waste.

Ah writer, they asked, what do you want to write about?

'I want to write about the great women in history like Theodora, Helen, Madame d' Stael, a variety of amazons, Eleanor of Aquataine. Science and religion; history and myth; socialism and capitalism. Haha, forget the last two.'

The writer was pleased that they asked.

'And American history; at least the consolidations, early uprisings, and wars. The Pequot War, for instance, when they burned down the house of my family's patron.'

But writer, don't you want to write a novel?

'A novel? Yes- a novel centered in California with locales to sink one's teeth into. Well, nothing can be said about a novel even though a thousand things are said about it. These forms are transformed like fashion and trends by strangers upon the land. Truthfully, there is only a man, his genius, and a piece of paper. Nothing else is needed. The man must fight every pressure that seals down the Muse and asphyxiates her. The only practical question is whether one pours himself into a series of small work or a few large ones.'

And what would your novel be about?

'A celebration of youth, nature, freedom and other exquisite things. The short story keeps the pain of craft alive. The novel is the day itself. It wakes, breathes, makes do with a hundred impressions, gets a glint outside the window of the sky, clouds, sun, is beguiled by many questions, eats, ponders, works, and sleeps.'

David Eide
November 1, 1999
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