An artist is suppressed by his art—the pursuit, by inner scrolls. An artist is chastised by the beauty she creates. We never mention the trembles—the confusion; into a careful nature, with existence seeming revealing, pardon what we fail to fathom. I have read a woman’s work, still extant, and I met said woman. I will not surmise much: I saw writing becomes her. I met a writer with depth and conviction, a resounding soul, a gentleman at wilderness—spreading sunshine. A writer might be between regrets, or threshed by adventure, or brooding in holy terrors. I met a person’s work, filled with flowing sentences, compelling nouns, fluid connectivity: it made for a second and third review. The writer is going through something. Each are brought closer by the unspoken truths seeping out of their works—the implications. Something familiar gets into readers. We are taken upon a journey—some experience healing, and some writers are going in further—with many undergoing something foreign to them. The arts are religious activities, reaching through all sciences, making life in spirits. Each sect has its jargon, its tenets, its beliefs and assertions. Each person, every writer, every mind is floating, reaching for wires, barely linked, sensing something perishing and growing notwithstanding.
