How Could I Say That I Wished

I Used To Distinguish Between My Fiction And Nonfiction In Terms Of Superiority Or Inferiority.

You Do Your Best Work When You're Not Conscious Of Yourself.

Amazingly, We Take For Granted That Instinct For Survival, Fear Of Death, Must Separate Us From The Happiness Of Pure And Uninterpreted Experience, In Which Body, Mind, And Nature Are The Same. This Retreat From Wonder, The Backing Away Like Lobsters Into Safe Crannies, The Desperate Instinct That Our Life Passes Unlived, Is Reflected In Proliferation Without Joy, Corrosive Money Rot, The Gross Befouling Of The Earth And Air And Water From Which We Came.

Soon The Child’s Clear Eye Is Clouded Over By Ideas And Opinions, Preconceptions, And Abstractions. Simple Free Being Becomes Encrusted With The Burdensome Armor Of The Ego. Not Until Years Later Does An Instinct Come That A Vital Sense Of Mystery Has Been Withdrawn. The Sun Glints Through The Pines And The Heart Is Pierced In A Moment Of Beauty And Strange Pain, Like A Memory Of Paradise. After That Day, We Become Seekers.

Alec Wilkinson Is A Spare, Clear, And Lucid Writer Who Works In Stylistic Simplicity With Material That Is Not Simple At All.