It might be something, to suggest that lack of personal insight into one's work is not a crime. I would have to love myself somewhat harder to take enjoyment in turning about and staring at what I've left behind, as if to offer an explanation, or a cure. I can justify nothing - that's a settled point - and there are three too many I's in criticism. No matter. People make lovely art with less.
But all the really good art is curious and the artists just as, or maybe not. I am at loose ends. I published The Hunting Party and have nothing on tap. It is a joyous time. I can do nothing or everything. Anxiety is at low ebb. My editor makes no demands of me for readings or baptisms. I am under contract to the soul of self.
Should my latest effort meet expectations or do as well as the others, I am sure to be rewarded. Long days, and a free hand. Publishing 28 books grants one certain permissions, such as, to enjoy life under the rule that others enjoy life, too.
I have wondered about my publisher, his life and all that. And it became apparent, over time, that we share much in common. While his press, Double Movement Publications, is his alone, he has a family, a job. We share similar political views and recycling practices, though he is given more to broad inclusion. His language is less colored, virtually blank. There is a tendency toward natural proxy, but then he is one in a long line of men, and women, and others, for whom the staple of truth is taken at seed.
If I were my publisher, and he I, no doubt we would bear similar thoughts respecting each other. Such is love as humanity under a common yoke. Such are flowers burdened by sunsets unyielding and sure.
The nest book should be...I do not know. I expect, given the rhythm I am in, to publish two more before the end of the year. But I enjoy this not know, being as unaware of the future as I am oblivious of my own past.
What is poetry, what is art? It is the fact of a thing having been made to the purpose of having been made.