Heaven forgive me, after years away from them, I’ve been looking at some of my old books — I mean those I’ve written — and finding them good. Novel, poems, stories, journal entries. Somehow, I had grown accustomed to the idea that they’re nothing special, that they’re marred by flaws, and while the latter, especially, is true, I find in most cases the flaws are endearing, so naïve and innocent they are, even as they stand as irrefutable evidence of immaturity and faulty thinking. But as I look at them now, I’m glad they’re part of the record, so to speak — I say so to speak, because few have read them, and possibly even fewer ever will, but that’s a small matter, if not the smallest of all. I’m happy. I lived them. I know what went into them, and how, despite various self-induced difficulties, they came about. At the same time, I’ve let them go. Like my children, they’re alive in the world. What else?