Concettina Died and Other Stories of the East Side

The torture of writing, posted January 9, 2007 at 12:08 PM

    I started another novel. So far it seems to me rather narrow and mean; a little pinchbeck; repetitious, halting; a bit purblind; not too inspired; somewhat lacking in imagination; rising to sudden and uncalled-for flights of fancy, only to fall as flat as a da Vinci designed plane; perhaps it errs too on the side of insistence, of promising to deliver more goods than it's got; nor is its language remarkable for freshness, force or felicity. Its wits is in its feet and its feet are in the mud.
    All the same, I think I'll go on with it.

--James Schuyler, in a letter to Frank O'Hara, 1955

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