In the night I have read three novels by Alfred Hayes, in the afternoon, the letters to and from Joe circa 1970. Paris, Sussex and Arabia. Alfred Hayes in New York and Rome, 1940s. This quiet november is room enough for us all, Alfred Hayes, Joe and me, in the middle of the twentieth century. Good colours and mushrooms, misty and still, the interposing of layers.
We write to understand. I don't know what I think until I've written it, said George Craig. And even then.
Though I come in for some stick for reading old letters, not just the ones I received, but also copies of the ones I sent, I am adamant: I need to think as a whole, hear both sides, the live conversation. So little of that about.
