they arrived in time I like to think about writers like James Joyce Hemingway, Ambrose Bierce, Faulkner, Sherwood Anderson, Jeffers, D. H. Lawrence, A. Huxley, John Fante, Gorki, Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Saroyan, Villon, even Sinclair Lewis, and Hamsun, even T. S. Elliot and Auden, William Carlos Williams and Stephen Spender and gutsy Ezra Pound. they taught me so many things that my parents never taught me, and I also like to think of Carson McCullers with her Sad Cafe and Golden Eye. she too taught me much that my parents never knew. I liked to read the hardcover library books in their simple library bindings blue and green and brown and light red I liked the older librarians (male and female) who stared seriously at one if you coughed or laughed too loudly, and even though they looked like my parents there was no real resemblance. now I no longer read those authors I once read with such pleasure, but it's good to think about them, and I also like to look again at photographs of Hart Crane and Caresse Crosby at Chantilly, 1929 or at photographs of D. H. Lawrence and Frieda sunning at Le Moulin, 1928. I like to see André Malraux in his flying outfit with a kitten on his chest and I like photos of Artaud in the madhouse Picasso at the beach with his strong legs and his hairless head, and there's D. H. Lawrence milking that cow and Aldous at Saltwood Castle, Kent, August 1963. I like to think about these people they taught me so many things that I never dreamed of before. and they taught me well, very well when it was so much need they showed me so many things that I never knew were possible. those friends deep in my blood who when there was no chance gave me one.