Why? What was I afraid of? Myself, most of all, it seemed. Gradually I began to realize that none of the subjects I wrote poems about engaged my deepest feelings, that there was a great chasm between what I cared about and what I wrote about. By closing me out of his world, Bennett had opened all sorts of worlds inside my own head. I was learning how to sneak up on the unconscious and how to catch my seemingly random thoughts and fantasies.
I was learning how to go down into myself and salvage bits and pieces of the past. “It took me years to learn to sit at my desk for more than two minutes at a time, to put up with the solitude and the terror of failure, and the godawful silence and the white paper.
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