Publication Date

One of the few pleasures of writing is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kind-hearted intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others are right now. I just noticed that it is my own private National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day (which means the next day I will love my life and want to live forever). The forecast calls for a cold night in Boston all morning and all afternoon. They say tomorrow will be just like today, only different. I’m in the cemetery now at the edge of town, how did I get here? A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying I am Federico Garcia Lorca risen from the dead– literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.

—Franz Wright