“The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside down.”
Writing is self-humiliation and self-betrayal, there’s something indignant about the very act. I write and it is, in a way, as if I am cheating on myself with myself. Poetry, for me, is a single moment. A moment in time. It is true, like that. It is false, like that. One can never put it on trial.
I felt a great depression, probably because I never believed that anything would continue, would hold. I never thought my advance would maintain its ground. I always thought there would be a collapse immediately after the advance.