Laying down the pen

Every sentence has a truth waiting at the end of it and the writer
learns how to know it when he finally gets there. On one level this
truth is the swing of the sentence, the beat and the poise, but down
deeper it's the integrity of the writer as he matches with the
language. I've always seen myself in sentences. I begin to recognize
myself, word by word, as I work through a sentence. The language of my
books has shaped me as a man. There's a moral force in a sentence when
it comes out right. It speaks the writer's will to live. The deeper I
become entangled in the process of getting a sentence right in its
syllables and rhythms, the more I learn about myself. I've worked the
sentences of this book long and hard but not long and hard enough
because I no longer see myself in the language. The running picture is
gone, the code of being that pushed me on and made me trust the world.
This book and these years have worn me down. Forgotten my own first
rule. Keep it simple, Bill. I've lacked courage and perseverance.
Exhausted. Sick of struggling. I've let good enough be good enough.
This is someone else's book. It feels all forced and wrong. I've
tricked myself into going on, into believing. Can you understand how
that can happen? I'm sitting on a book that's dead.
Don DeLillo

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