May 29, 2016
I was still in Columbia in the spring of 1992. Sitting on my porch, I read a story by Mark Twain. In it the greatest writer who had ever existed was never published, and his scripts were locked away in a chest that has been forgotten. Yet, in heaven, he led the parade of all the writers there. The part about “the greatest writer” left me cold. But I had lived with Ceremonies so long. No one else had read it. I was drawn irresistibly to the image of writing something that was never shared with anyone. Somehow it warmed me.