It has been night for a long time. Hours pass— yet it’s the same hour. I can’t sleep.
My mind is fractured like broken glass. Or a broken mirror, shards reflecting shards. I am incapable of thinking but only of receiving, like a fine-meshed net strung tight, mere glimmerings of thought. Teasing fragments of “memory”—or is it “invented memory”?—rise and turn and fall and sift and scatter and rearrange themselves into arabesques of patterns on the verge of becoming coherent, yet do not become coherent.’
Want to read more? This is from Joyce Carol Oates’ blog Celestial Timepiece.
This is her latest collection of short stories. Twenty-five Gothic horror tales.
“We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have.
Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
Henry James. This quote hangs above Oates’ writing desk.