![]() ![]() I’m always reading 77 Dream Songs by John Berryman, rooting for him, despairing of him, entering into his strangely refined sensibility while absorbing all the pain and chaos of his days. ![]() Inside she wrote: “I hope one day to see a book of your writings on a bookseller’s shelves.” I was knocked out. When I left primary school, the headteacher gave me a copy of Walkabout by James Vance Marshall. The book that made me want to be a writer I also love his fidelity to perceptions that have a provisional quality: the comment you thought you might have heard but actually hasn’t been uttered, or the moment when you are certain someone has caught you thinking something you would never in a million years think … His preoccupation with how to be good in the world, without taking on too much of the taint that the word “worldly” carries, soon became a focus. As I remember everything I’ve ever thought and everything anyone has ever said to me, his commitment to rendering the entire landscape of human consciousness makes sense of so much. ![]()
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