PEN America 6: Metamorphoses
I think the Holy Ghost has written
not only the Bible but all books.
—George Bernard Shaw
No staring out the windows, no sharpening pencils,
no torn-up pages, no writer’s block.
No waiting for inspiration—just the downward spiral
to the empty page and, under his wingspread,
the beautiful alphabet glowing letter by letter,
the gold-leaf illustrations, the chapter headings:
Apocalypse to Zenith, Alpha to Omega.
A best-seller, his first book set the standard:
always in print, available at bookstores,
on street corners, in night-table drawers at Holiday Inns,
translated into multiple languages, its immortal phrases
quoted in speeches, etched on gravestones.
But the spouse of language married the letter
for eternity. He composes in all genres: elegy, novel,
parable, history, short story, even the occasional
screenplay. Working late nights, writing
early mornings, scribbling in distracted moments
like driving the car or cooking dinner, he extends
his glorious wings, then folds them close,
brooding a book mysterious, interpretable,
always a revelation. He knows his endings
in his beginnings and identifies
with all his characters: the sufferer, the innocent,
the prodigal child, the betrayer, the faithful
and even the faithless. His books fill libraries
from Alexandria to Poughkeepsie. Invisible,
his subliminal shadow takes up residence
in human hearts. The wild chambers of Emily
he loved, the deep fires of Augustine. Among
the Evangelists he favored Luke.
Was there a moment when he decided to do this?
Or did it just happen like light falling across
the water? First the blank page, then quickening
word out of word, so never stopping and each one
perfect with no sentence left to chance.
Only the trumpet sounding the end will bring
this life of writing to a stop. Bending intently
over he searches the last, the most beautiful word.
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