I am. That's enough for now.
Why do I write? The purpose for my writing stems from the same origin as what fuels my creativity, if I may be so bold as to call it that. 'Why?' is a question which leaves no stone unturned. If I want to understand anything worth understanding, 'why' is a very important question. Especially when it comes to the tracery of human events as we etch them, one by one, here in our corner of the cosmos. Behind all of the treachery and misery, I remain convinced there lies beauty, sweet poetic beauty. Clarity. Purpose. Meaning. I could be wrong. Most likely, I am wrong. But I'll pass on with a pen in hand trying to find and prove otherwise.
'Gilead', Marilynne Robinson. Anything by Vonnegut, especially 'Cat's Cradle' and 'Player Piano' 'The Road', McCarthy Conrad, especially 'Lord Jim' and 'Heart of Darkness' 'The Magus', John Fowles 'The White Hotel' Italo Calvino Borges 'Pale Fire', Nabokov 'Waiting for Godot', Beckett 'The Lovely Bones' 'The Maytrees', Dillard
No one has written on andrew p. phillips's wall.
No one has written on andrew p. phillips's wall.