For every hero there’s a nemesis, and for every genius there’s a nothing. And for every new day there is always a night. The truth is not necessarily what you see or in the moment believe but exists in those things which you have made, created and that stand, that hold meaning. Those things that are treasured long after you’ve left the building or this weary world behind. These are the true works of art, poetry and literature. Our children in both physical & metaphysical, spiritual and living form. There is never an ending to our stories even after we are gone. Every moment is a beginning. Every moment a resurrection.
“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.”
He was and still is a huge influence on my writing to this day. His work, you may find is also an influence on my new book, “The Bones of Our Existence, A Journal 2046”. The daily struggle of mankind and humanity, compassion, will always exist. Bukowski once said it’s how we walk through the fire. Steinbeck’s books showed us how.