Which is one way to convince yourself that your book is not even a drop in the vastness that is what we do, the combined holler of all of us. About to stop itself about to be quiet. Like a dead baby that didn't even get started. When I asked my Western Humanities class if it was God's will that many children will not see their fifth birthdays, she said of course. This was during the time of my great quarrel with God. Her answer didn't help.
I know that the book needs some more deleting. I do not think it needs any additions. And there's a very large part of me that thinks I should work on the book another year. Or ten. But that would defeat the purpose of getting the thing published.
Which of course doesn't really matter, eh, Shelley? I saw your grave in Rome, near the pyramid of Caius Cestius. Keats has his own park, place of honor, set apart. You are are piled up with the others there, a white slab, but the better words--
Nothing of him that doth fade/But doth suffer a sea-change/Into something rich and strange.
To die at sea, in a sudden storm. A fitting death for such a poet.
But your wife outstripped you. Outstripped you and all of your friends. Or will, in the end.