AMORY WRITES A POEM
What little I’ve accomplished has been by the most laborious and uphill work, and I wish now I’d never relaxed or looked back – but said at the end of The Great Gatsby: ‘I’ve found my line – from now on this comes first. This is my immediate duty – without this I am nothing.
Art isn’t meaningless… It is in itself. It isn’t in that it tries to make life less so.
I’ve always looked on criticism as a sort of envious tribute.
I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on.
But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone – he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling.
And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college – one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.
If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter–as indissolubly as if they were conceived together.
I’m not much like myself any more.