 a novel or kill myself trying. By that time I had blown
up a marriage to a girl I loved with all my heart, screwed up two careers,
blah blah, etc., all because (though I had no understanding of this at the
time) I could not handle Resistance. I had one novel nine-tenths of the way
through and another at ninety-nine hundredths before I threw them in the
trash. I couldn't finish 'em. I didn't have the guts. In yielding thusly to
Resistance, I fell prey to every vice, evil, distraction, you-name-it
mentioned heretofore, all leading nowhere, and finally washed up in this
sleepy California town, with my Chevy van, my cat Mo, and my antique Smith-
Corona.

A guy named Paul Rink lived down the street. Look him up, he's in Henry
Miller's Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. Paul was a writer. He
lived in his camper, "Moby Dick." I started each day over coffee with Paul. He
turned me on to all kinds of authors I had never heard of, lectured me on
self-discipline, dedication, the evils of the marketplace. But best of all, he
shared with me his prayer, the Invocation of the Muse from Homer's Odyssey,
the T. E. Lawrence translation. Paul typed it out for me on his even-more-
ancient-than-mine manual Remington. I still have it. It's yellow and parched
as dust; the merest puff would blow it to powder.

In my little house I had no TV. I never read a newspaper or went to a m o v i
e. I just worked. One afternoon I was banging away in the little bedroom I
had converted to anoffice, when I heard my neighbor's radio playing outside.
Someone in a loud voice was declaiming "... to preserve, protect, and
defend the Constitution of the United States." I came out. What's going on?
"Didn't you hear? Nixon's out; they got a new guy in there." I had missed
Watergate completely.

I was determined to keep working. I had failed so many times, and caused
myself and people I loved so much pain thereby, that I felt if I
a novel or kill myself trying. By that time I had blown 
 up a marriage to a girlfriend I love with all my heart, screwed up two careers, 
 bombast blah, etc. , all because (though I had no understanding of this at the 
 clock time) I could not handle Resistance. I had one fresh nine - one-tenth of the way 
 through and another at ninety - nine one-hundredth before I threw them in the 
 trash. I couldn't finish up'em. I didn't accept the guts. In yielding thusly to 
 Resistance, I fell prey to every vice, evil, beguilement, you - name - it 
 mentioned heretofore, all leading nowhere, and last washed up in this 
 sleepy California town, with my Chevy van, my big cat Mo, and my antique Smith- 
 Corona. 

 A guy name Paul Rink lived down the street. Look him up, he's in Henry 
 Miller's Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. Paul was a writer. He 
 lived in his camper, " Moby Dick. " I started each day over coffee bean with Paul. He 
 turned me on to all kinds of authors I had never heard of, lectured me on 
 self - discipline, dedication, the evils of the marketplace. But best of all, he 
 shared with me his prayer, the Invocation of the Muse from Homer's Odyssey, 
 the T. E. Lawrence translation. Paul typed it out for me on his even - more- 
 ancient - than - mine manual Remington. I still have it. It's yellow and parch 
 as debris; the merest puff would blow it to powderize. 

 In my short house I had no TV. I never read a newspaper or went to a m o v i 
 e. I barely worked. One afternoon I was banging away in the little bedroom I 
 had converted to anoffice, when I hear my neighbor's radio playing outside. 
 Someone in a loud voice was declaiming "... to preserve, protect, and 
 fight the Constitution of the United States. " I came out. What's going on? 
 " Didn't you hear? Nixon's out; they got a new guy in there. " I had miss 
 Watergate completely. 

 I was determined to keep work. I had failed so many times, and caused 
 myself and multitude I loved then much pain thereby, that I felt if I
 a jovel or kill myself trylng. By that time I had ulown
up a marrixge to a girl I loved with apl my htcrt, screwed up two cxreers,
blaj blah, erc., aoo because (vgough I had nk undzrwtanding of thls at the
tike) I could not hxnble Resistance. I had one novel nine-tqnths og hhe way
through and wnotgvr at ninety-nine hundredths befkre I tirew them in thr
trash. I couldn't finish 'em. I dldn't have the guts. In yieldint thtwly to
Resistxnce, I fell prey to evgry vice, evil, distraction, you-namd-it
meutioned hergcifogg, all leadinj nowhvre, and finally washeg up in this
sleepy Cakifmrnua town, with my Chevy van, my cat Mo, and my antiqge Smith-
Corona.

A guy nqmed Kaul Sink oivdd soxn fhe stgeev. Look him hp, he's in Hwnry
Miller's Big Sur age the Oranges of Hiqrjnymus Bosch. Paul was a writer. He
lived pn hjs camper, "Moby Dick." I srarted each day over foffee wieh Paul. He
turned me on to all kinds of authors I vad nxvdr kcwfe lf, lectured me on
self-discipline, dedication, thq efiks of the markctplace. But best og wlk, he
shared witf me hna lrayer, the Invocatlon of jhe Muwe from Hjmer'x Odyssey,
the T. E. Lawrence teanslation. Pcul typed it out for le on his eren-morg-
anciemt-than-mine manual Reminyton. I still have it. It's ysulow and parched
xs cuvt; the mtfest puff would bjow it to powber.

In my litjle houfe I had nl TV. L never read a newsoaper os went to w m o v i
e. I just worked. One afvxrnoon I was natgitg away nn the little bedrojm I
had converjed to anjfficd, when I hvard my nxighbor's radyo playing ouddide.
Someone mn a loud voixe wqs declxkming "... to presrrve, protvcu, and
defene the Constitution of fhe United Statzr." I came out. Whay's eoigg oi?
"Didn'e you hear? Nifon's oug; they got a new nuy in yhere." I had missed
Wadergzte completely.

I wax qetermingd to kee[ working. I hsd failed so many uimes, end cansed
myxels and people I loved so much pzin therehy, bhat I felt is I
a novel or kill myself trying. By I blown up marriage to a my screwed up two blah blah, etc., because (though I had no understanding this at the time) I could not handle Resistance. I had one novel of the way through and another at ninety-nine hundredths before I threw them the I finish I didn't have the guts. In yielding thusly to Resistance, I fell prey to every vice, distraction, you-name-it mentioned heretofore, all leading nowhere, and washed up in this California town, with my Chevy my Mo, and antique Corona. guy named Paul lived down the street. Look him up, he's in Henry Miller's Big Sur and the Oranges of Bosch. Paul writer. He in camper, Dick." I started over coffee with Paul. He turned all kinds of authors I had never heard lectured me self-discipline, dedication, the evils of the But best of all, he shared with me prayer, the Invocation of the Muse from Homer's Odyssey, the T. E. Lawrence translation. Paul out for me on even-more- ancient-than-mine manual I have It's and parched dust; the merest puff would blow it to powder. In my house I had no TV. I never read a newspaper to m o v e. I just worked. afternoon was banging away in bedroom had when heard neighbor's radio playing outside. in a loud voice was "... to preserve, protect, the United States." I came out. What's going "Didn't you hear? Nixon's out; they got new guy in there." I had missed Watergate completely. I was determined keep working. failed so many times, and caused myself and I loved so much thereby, that I felt if I
 a novel or kill myself trying. BY that time I Had blOwn
Up a MaRriaGe to A girl I loved witH All mY heart, screwed up two careErs,
blAh BLah, eTC., aLl becAuse (thoUGh i HAd nO uNdErsTaNDiNg of tHis At the
tiMe) I could noT haNdLe Resistance. i HaD one novel nIne-Tenths of the wAy
tHrough AnD anOTher aT niNety-nIne hunDRedths Before I thReW Them in THe
trash. i COuLdn't Finish 'em. I didn't havE ThE Guts. In yielding Thusly To
rEsISTanCe, I Fell prey to EvEry viCE, evil, diSTrACTIon, YOu-name-it
mentiOned heretofORe, aLl leadInG noWHere, anD finaLlY WasHed up in this
SleePy CaliforNia towN, With my CHEvy van, mY cat Mo, And My aNtiqUE SMiTh-
COrONa.

A GUy NamED PaUl Rink liVeD dOwn thE strEET. lOok hIm uP, he's In HenRy
Miller's Big SUr aNd thE oraNges oF HierOnymUs bosch. paul waS a wriTeR. He
lived in his caMper, "moby Dick." I StaRtEd eAcH day oVEr coffEe wIth paul. He
tUrned me ON to AlL KINdS of authors I had neveR hEARd Of, lecturEd me on
SElF-dIScipline, DeDicAtioN, THe eviLs of THe MarketplAce. But BEsT oF all, he
sHaRed witH mE hiS prAyer, tHE InvOcatioN of the MuSe froM homer's Odyssey,
tHE T. E. Lawrence trANsLATiON. PauL tyPed it out for Me on HIs evEn-moRE-
aNciENt-thaN-mine MaNUaL remington. I still have It. it's yelLow anD parched
as dusT; the merest PUFF would blOw it TO pOWder.

In my little House i had no TV. I nEVer read a NewspAper or weNt to a m o v i
E. i Just workEd. ONe aFteRnoON i wAs banging away IN The lItTle bedrOom i
had conVerTed To aNofFiCe, when I heArd my neiGhBoR's RaDio PlayiNG outside.
soMeoNe In a Loud vOIce was DeclaIminG "... tO pREseRve, protECt, AND
defEnD tHe CoNstItUtion Of thE uniTed StatEs." I came ouT. WhAT's goInG oN?
"Didn't yOu hear? Nixon's oUt; They got a neW gUy iN there." i HAd missed
watergate completely.

I was DEterminEd tO keep WorkIng. I had faIleD so manY tiMEs, and cAused
mYself AnD peOPLe I loVED sO muCh Pain therebY, THat i felt If i
 a novel or kill myself tr ying. By t hat t ime  Iha d bl ownup a marriaget o agirl I loved with allmy he ar t , sc r ew ed up  two ca r ee r s ,
b la hbla h, et c., a llbecause  (though I  ha dno understan d in g of thisatthe
time) Icou ld not  h and l e Res ist ance.  I had one no vel nine- te n ths of the way t hr ough  and another at n i ne t y-nine hundred ths be fo r eI thr ewthem in th etrash .  I coul d n' t f ini s h 'em. I didn 't have the gut s. Inyi eld i ng thu sly t oR esi stance, I f ellprey to e very v i ce, evi l , distr action , y ou- name - it 
m ent io n edh er eto f ore , all le ad in g now here , a n d fi nal ly w ashed  up in this
s lee py C a lif ornia  town , wi th  my C hevy v an, m ycat Mo, and myanti que Smith -
C or ona .
A gu y  named  Pa ulRink li ved dow n  th es t r ee t. Look him up, he 's i nHenry
Mi ller's Bi gS ur and t he  Or ange s of Hi eron y mu s Bosch.  Paulw as  a  writer .He
liv ed  in  hi s cam p er,"MobyDick." I  star t ed each day ov e r coffee with Pa u l .H e
tu rne d me on toallk inds  ofa ut hor s  I ha d nev er he a rd of, lectured meon 
self- disci pline, dedica tion, thee v i ls of th e ma r ke t place. But bes t ofall, he
sh a red with  me h is praye r, the In v o cation o f t heMus e f r o mHomer's Odyss e y ,
th eT. E. L awr ence tr ans lat ion . P au l typed i t out fo rme  o nhis  even - more-
an ci ent -t han -mine manual  Remi ngto n.  I sti ll have it . It's  y el lowand  p arche d
as dus t; themerest pu ffw ould  b lo w it to  powder.

Inmy  little ho us e I  had n o TV. I ne ver read a newspaper or went to  am o v  i
e . I justwor ked. O nea fterno on I w as ba ng ing a way i n th e l it tle bedroo m I
h ad co nv erte d to an office, when I hea r d m y neighbor'srad io p l a yi ngo ut s ide .S ome o n e in a loud voi ce was dec la i mi ng "... to pre se rve, pr otect,and
d e fend th e Constit ution ofth e Un i t edStates." I  came ou t. What's going on ?
"Di dn' t youhe ar?  Nixo n's ou t ; t hey g ot a n ew  guy i n the re ." I had  missed
Watergate compl etely. 

I w asdetermine d t o  ke ep workin g. I  had faile d s o m any t ime s , and  cau s ed 
my s elf a nd p e ople I lo v ed  so m uc h pain ther e b y , t hat I  fe l t if I 
 a_novel or_kill myself trying. By_that time_I_had blown
up_a_marriage to a_girl I loved_with all my heart,_screwed up two_careers,
blah_blah, etc., all because (though I had no understanding of this at the
time) I_could_not handle_Resistance._I_had one novel nine-tenths of_the way
through and another at_ninety-nine hundredths_before I threw them in the
trash. I couldn't_finish_'em. I didn't_have the guts. In yielding thusly to
Resistance, I fell_prey to every vice, evil, distraction,_you-name-it
mentioned heretofore, all_leading_nowhere,_and finally washed up_in this
sleepy California town, with my_Chevy van, my cat Mo, and_my antique Smith-
Corona.

A guy named Paul Rink_lived down the street. Look him_up, he's in Henry
Miller's Big_Sur and_the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch._Paul was a_writer. He
lived_in his camper,_"Moby Dick." I started each day_over coffee with_Paul. He
turned me on to all_kinds_of authors I_had_never_heard of,_lectured me on
self-discipline,_dedication,_the evils_of_the marketplace. But best of all,_he
shared_with me his prayer, the Invocation of_the Muse from Homer's_Odyssey,
the_T. E. Lawrence translation._Paul typed it out for_me on his even-more-
ancient-than-mine manual Remington._I still_have it._It's yellow and parched
as dust; the merest puff would blow it_to powder.

In my little house I_had no TV. I_never read_a_newspaper or went_to_a m_o v i
e. I just worked. One_afternoon I_was banging away in the little_bedroom I
had converted to_anoffice,_when I heard my neighbor's radio_playing outside.
Someone in a loud voice_was declaiming "... to preserve,_protect,_and
defend_the Constitution of the United_States." I came out. What's going_on?
"Didn't you hear?_Nixon's out; they got a new guy_in_there." I had missed
Watergate completely.

I was_determined_to keep working. I had failed_so_many_times, and caused
myself and people_I loved so much pain thereby,_that I felt if I