A book is a mirror: if an ape looks into it, an apostle is hardly likely to look out.
~ Georg Lichtenberg
A pithy response to the critical reader. But perhaps for the writer the book isn’t so much a mirror as a window (windows too can reflect): smudged, uneven, through which the world and self are printed in palimpsest. Looking into my own twenty-five thousand words I can dimly detect the outlines of a portrait under the cityscape. Whether it’s saint or simian, I don’t know.
