The Author In Autumn

I remember a walk I took at twilight nearly twenty years ago.  I was living in Menthon-St.-Bernard, France then, a mountainous region in Haute Savoie on a deep lake. My Best Beloved and I lived in a house a ways up the mountain,  perhaps a twenty minute walk up the steep path from Menthon itself…

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Playing in Inkwood

I was twenty, and it was somewhere round three o’clock in the morning.  I sat at a battered desk in the corner of the bedroom in my basement apartment in Montreal.  The floor was warped from one of the unending water leaks in the ancient plumbing and the desk wobbled. Charlie Mingus’s music played from…

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Writer, dreaming…

I’m a big dreamer.  Most writers are, I think.  I was raised as an only child, a none-too-popular one at that, and thus books and my imagination provided a good deal of my entertainment. I spent many a summer afternoon in an old abandoned apple-orchard near my house.  A stream trickled through it and I…

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