The beauty of the lack of alienation that is created when one works with a publishing collective that has their hand in every little part of the production process simply magnifies the pleasure an author receives when he (me) is on the shelf of another, or better yet, being read by another. I don't care if they don't like the book (I can just say that they are morons who don't understand the nuances of the concept).
And so, this night, to know that some precocious 16 year old girl is reading her parents copy of On the conditions and possibilities of Helen Clark taking me as her Young Lover gives me great hope, enormous satisfaction and the ability to put to one side the tragedies (I suppose, having not given them any deep thoughts) of Elliot Smith and Vic Chesnutt and perhaps some who are even closer to me.
This: a romance as an obituary. An obituary as a romance. A guy, not living through the 20s, 30s, and 40s, but writing nonetheless. And by that I recall those of the greatest generation, the one going and gone, those lacking pensions, those who collect fruits and preserve them and who I am sad to say are fading from this world.