[7] These are some sounds of Neruda:

In that vine of the familiars I have keys for the father of my parent O! Pain of an era in that of no eras Taxiways of a kill for no evolving cause Pork in the wagon over tiers of tarragon.

To key my library Era Compact Firm Ark ado Come one new blank Entreat a bier Come one new rose Era. Nose sense. Infinity.

[6] Gramophone spindle revolving on sheets of shellac, the way some folks scratch out a living, playing with knifes in that dark room of his throat, sour breath of whiskey, baby in a blue sequined dress pouring her liquid body over his chest, nights when sweat drips on tables like rain, cigarettes too raw to smoke, tar on the tongue, tires squealing as notes drive through the tail wind of sixty foot truck liners, driving all night to see momma before sundown, smell of shaving lotion, Jimmy Jim’s calloused hands on the back of his bent neck, mud through which rivers drag the dead at their bottom, dimes for cokes and long distance calls from the diner with pink neon, she done gone, no one to call no more, litany blowing through the horn, got some change to spare man, all he needs is a beer, in this wino town there is nothing to do, the breeze has been long since shot in the alley behind Bethel Salvation Church, Holy Mother of God he sho is gonna kill the bitch with his frozen hands, ass in the can, red face police daddy’s knuckles caressing his face, start to get a tattoo, history craved in flesh and bone, no mo forgetting all this not worth remembering, head in the hands, spinning out some blues for he and you.

[5] Ends of the year blues, hours drag heavy through the bare trees like the dimmed sun. One part of this dark brain is spewing away ticker tape. The same words that I have confronted for years now, almost ten: this life is won’t worth living this way, this day, I hear them said in a glancing echo, as one might hear the sound of falling snow.

So I sit and feed it philosophy, Buddha’s mainly. Life is suffering, and that there is a way out of here, this too shall pass etc. What is this love for words, but a stay against despair, ballast to make this ship on the trackless sea float, another addiction that is not a solution? If madness is a leaving train from the station of unbearable weight, then this madness of mine never leaves, the clocks keep running backwards from the departure time.

Once on the couch of a shrink, I was asked how often did I have suicidal thoughts? “Quite frequently”, I answered. This human pageant with its daily parade quite often appears to be meaningless to me. Then again more words, not from him, but from someone else; the purpose of life is to magnify God. But where the devil is God?

Donald Hall has been editing this excellent series of books on poetry by various poets. Here are a few links for the interested and the ignorant:

www.press.umich.edu

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

www.amazon.com

Write, Read, Rewrite. Repeat Steps 2 and 3 as Needed. By SUSAN SONTAG taken from NYT's Writers on Writing series: www.nytimes.com

Sontag died on Dec 28, 2004. RIP O' Master Reader

Reading novels seems to me such a normal activity, while writing them is such an odd thing to do. . . . At least so I think until I remind myself how firmly the two are related. (No armored generalities here. Just a few remarks.)

First, because to write is to practice, with particular intensity and attentiveness, the art of reading. You write in order to read what you've written and see if it's O.K. and, since of course it never is, to rewrite it — once, twice, as many times as it takes to get it to be something you can bear to reread. You are your own first, maybe severest, reader. "To write is to sit in judgment on oneself," Ibsen inscribed on the flyleaf of one of his books. Hard to imagine writing without rereading.

But is what you've written straight off never all right? Yes, sometimes even better than all right. And that only suggests, to this novelist at any rate, that with a closer look, or voicing aloud — that is, another reading — it might be better still. I'm not saying that the writer has to fret and sweat to produce something good.

"What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure," said Dr. Johnson, and the maxim seems as remote from contemporary taste as its author. Surely, much that is written without effort gives a great deal of pleasure.

No, the question is not the judgment of readers — who may well prefer a writer's more spontaneous, less elaborated work — but a sentiment of writers, those professionals of dissatisfaction. You think, "If I can get it to this point the first go around, without too much struggle, couldn't it be better still?"

And though the rewriting — and the rereading — sound like effort, they are actually the most pleasurable parts of writing. Sometimes the only pleasurable parts. Setting out to write, if you have the idea of "literature" in your head, is formidable, intimidating. A plunge in an icy lake. Then comes the warm part: when you already have something to work with, upgrade, edit.

Let's say it's a mess. But you have a chance to fix it. You try to be clearer. Or deeper. Or more eloquent. Or more eccentric. You try to be true to a world. You want the book to be more spacious, more authoritative. You want to winch yourself up from yourself. You want to winch the book out of your balky mind. As the statue is entombed in the block of marble, the novel is inside your head. You try to liberate it. You try to get this wretched stuff on the page closer to what you think your book should be — what you know, in your spasms of elation, it can be. You read the sentences over and over. Is this the book I'm writing? Is this all?

Or let's say it's going well; for it does go well, sometimes. (If it didn't, some of the time, you'd go crazy.) There you are, and even if you are the slowest of scribes and the worst of touch typists, a trail of words is getting laid down, and you want to keep going; and then you reread it. Perhaps you don't dare to be satisfied, but at the same time you like what you've written. You find yourself taking pleasure — a reader's pleasure — in what's there on the page.

Writing is finally a series of permissions you give yourself to be expressive in certain ways. To invent. To leap. To fly. To fall. To find your own characteristic way of narrating and insisting; that is, to find your own inner freedom. To be strict without being too self-excoriating. Not stopping too often to reread. Allowing yourself, when you dare to think it's going well (or not too badly), simply to keep rowing along. No waiting for inspiration's shove.

Blind writers can never reread what they dictate. Perhaps this matters less for poets, who often do most of their writing in their head before setting anything down on paper. (Poets live by the ear much more than prose writers do.) And not being able to see doesn't mean that one doesn't make revisions. Don't we imagine that Milton's daughters, at the end of each day of the dictation of "Paradise Lost," read it all back to their father aloud and then took down his corrections?

But prose writers, who work in a lumberyard of words, can't hold it all in their heads. They need to see what they've written. Even those writers who seem most forthcoming, prolific, must feel this. (Thus Sartre announced, when he went blind, that his writing days were over.) Think of portly, venerable Henry James pacing up and down in a room in Lamb House composing "The Golden Bowl" aloud to a secretary. Leaving aside the difficulty of imagining how James's late prose could have been dictated at all, much less to the racket made by a Remington typewriter circa 1900, don't we assume that James reread what had been typed and was lavish with his corrections?

When I became, again, a cancer patient two years ago and had to break off work on the nearly finished "In America," a kind friend in Los Angeles, knowing my despair and fear that now I'd never finish it, offered to take a leave from his job and come to New York and stay with me as long as needed, to take down my dictation of the rest of the novel. True, the first eight chapters were done (that is, rewritten and reread many times), and I'd begun the next-to-last chapter, and I did feel I had the arc of those last two chapters entirely in my head. And yet, and yet, I had to refuse his touching, generous offer.

It wasn't just that I was already too befuddled by a drastic chemo cocktail and lots of painkillers to remember what I was planning to write. I had to be able to see what I wrote, not just hear it. I had to be able to reread.

Reading usually precedes writing. And the impulse to write is almost always fired by reading. Reading, the love of reading, is what makes you dream of becoming a writer. And long after you've become a writer, reading books others write — and rereading the beloved books of the past — constitutes an irresistible distraction from writing. Distraction. Consolation. Torment. And, yes, inspiration.

Of course, not all writers will admit this. I remember once saying something to V. S. Naipaul about a 19th-century English novel I loved, a very well-known novel that I assumed he, like everyone I knew who cared for literature, admired as I did. But no, he'd not read it, he said, and seeing the shadow of surprise on my face, added sternly, "Susan, I'm a writer, not a reader."

Many writers who are no longer young claim, for various reasons, to read very little, indeed, to find reading and writing in some sense incompatible. Perhaps, for some writers, they are. It's not for me to judge. If the reason is anxiety about being influenced, then this seems to me a vain, shallow worry. If the reason is lack of time — there are only so many hours in the day, and those spent reading are evidently subtracted from those in which one could be writing — then this is an asceticism to which I don't aspire.

Losing yourself in a book, the old phrase, is not an idle fantasy but an addictive, model reality. Virginia Woolf famously said in a letter, "Sometimes I think heaven must be one continuous unexhausted reading." Surely the heavenly part is that — again, Woolf's words — "the state of reading consists in the complete elimination of the ego." Unfortunately, we never do lose the ego, any more than we can step over our own feet. But that disembodied rapture, reading, is trancelike enough to make us feel ego-less.

Like reading, rapturous reading, writing fiction — inhabiting other selves — feels like losing yourself, too.

Everybody likes to think now that writing is just a form of self-regard. Also called self-expression. As we're no longer supposed to be capable of authentically altruistic feelings, we're not supposed to be capable of writing about anyone but ourselves.

But that's not true. William Trevor speaks of the boldness of the nonautobiographical imagination. Why wouldn't you write to escape yourself as much as you might write to express yourself? It's far more interesting to write about others.

Needless to say, I lend bits of myself to all my characters. When, in "In America," my immigrants from Poland reach Southern California — they're just outside the village of Anaheim — in 1876, stroll out into the desert and succumb to a terrifying, transforming vision of emptiness, I was surely drawing on my own memory of childhood walks into the desert of southern Arizona — outside what was then a small town, Tucson — in the 1940's. In the first draft of that chapter, there were saguaros in the Southern California desert. By the third draft I had taken the saguaros out, reluctantly. (Alas, there aren't any saguaros west of the Colorado River.)

What I write about is other than me. As what I write is smarter than I am. Because I can rewrite it. My books know what I once knew, fitfully, intermittently. And getting the best words on the page does not seem any easier, even after so many years of writing. On the contrary.

Here is the great difference between reading and writing. Reading is a vocation, a skill, at which, with practice, you are bound to become more expert. What you accumulate as a writer are mostly uncertainties and anxieties.

All these feelings of inadequacy on the part of the writer — this writer, anyway — are predicated on the conviction that literature matters. Matters is surely too pale a word. That there are books that are "necessary," that is, books that, while reading them, you know you'll reread. Maybe more than once. Is there a greater privilege than to have a consciousness expanded by, filled with, pointed to literature?

Book of wisdom, exemplar of mental playfulness, dilator of sympathies, faithful recorder of a real world (not just the commotion inside one head), servant of history, advocate of contrary and defiant emotions . . . a novel that feels necessary can be, should be, most of these things.

As for whether there will continue to be readers who share this high notion of fiction, well, "there's no future to that question," as Duke Ellington replied when asked why he was to be found playing morning programs at the Apollo. Best just to keep rowing along.