I’ve never thought my writing to have any merit.
I’ve been told that it is graceful.
I find that doubtful.
I’ve been told that it is a mixture of printing and cursive.
I find that plausible.
When I look at it, all I see is a man whose hands shake.
A man who rushes rushes rushes with neither goal nor dream.
When I look at my writing I find a man who cannot choose, whose style whirls and teeters without the slightest hope of balance.
Maybe some day I will see a man who feels no need to choose, who glories in his momentum- moving for the glory and the pleasure of it.
Yet even then my hands will still shake.
