Stephen Sprouse party, New York 1995
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I wish you could live in my brain for a week. It is washed with the most violent waves of emotion. What about? I dont know. It begins on waking; and I never know which—shall I be happy? Shall I be miserable… I keep up some mechanical activity with my hands, setting type; ordering dinner. Without this, I should brood ceaselessly.
Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words.… here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can’t dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it; and in writing (such is my present belief) one has to recapture this, and set this working (which has nothing apparently to do with words) and then, as it breaks and tumbles in the mind, it makes words to fit it.
dovies