In dimly lit rooms faceless men and women sit hunched over keyboards, fingers tapping wildly but silently on their keys, unaware of their thoughts or the processes of their writings. They seek answers to questions that torture timelessly, striving to expel them from their minds and get them out of their mental cells and into the world. There are sensations — something in their fingers like presences or prospects of the cold — but there are no ideas. 

And beyond their rooms there are other rooms in which people lie still as corpses but conscious, as if under a strange and all-pervasive governance, a principality of heel-click on sidewalk and sodium streetlight. A dark miasma seeps into their rooms through loose window pains and broken transoms, a hideously expanding ectoplasm, which they inhale deep down into their lungs as they wait to be written.

Writers are alchemists and they are chosen not manufactured. Chosen by whom? you ask. God? I don’t believe in God, so that’s out. What is there to believe in? Something bigger than ourselves? What could be bigger than a self? What could be bigger than ‘I’? Other men like me, perhaps? Only I’ve never met any.

Writers are chosen. Chosen by what they write. Curses are cast in soiled paper wraps, hexes are hurled through space via satellite and through wires and eventually are rendered in words. Spiritual beauty is to be found in anger. For rage moves like an erotic impulse towards the experience of time suspended; rage can expand the moment so that the whole of life becomes potentially one enormous and eternal present, like a piece of writing.

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