I don’t think anyone has created a better picture of a storm than Joseph Conrad has in Typhoon.
You look so pitiful now, scrutinizing rheumy eyed, your mantle all in tatters.
Call them meditations, or reflections, or call them ponderings—call them utter rubbish—these five poems have been on my computer for a while.
To cut to the chase, you should not submit fiction, poetry, non-fiction, or anything else you might submit in the fond hope of getting published because you will lose the will to live.
This is a confounding book in that it is both very good and deeply flawed.
Everyone is duped; all see and each believes. Our sight’s a puppeteer