Amazing how fantasy adjusts to reality, and vice-versa. How the pinecones that have fallen from fir trees in central Oregon look like failed actors, fired by the theatre boss for not knowing their lines. The people, if there is such a thing, are sitting in big new pick-up trucks named for national parks, scratching off lottery tickets they've just bought at Circle K. It's amazing how gradually the men and women of this country have become reverse pioneers; that is to say, they no longer wish to tame the wilderness, they only want to stay somewhere very near themselves and what they already know, fire up the barbecue and dine on red meat and wine, then watch tv. And there's nothing wrong with that, there really isn't, so long as they've made provisions for the little bird outside the window at four in the morning, digging its own grave with a song.

Manuscript, novel by Thomas Fuller tentatively titled, "The Autobiography of Poetry."