The Last Book

At the beginning of the morning, one’s life often feels relaxed until the daily drag of life negates even the former birds singing, where one is often forced into some other way of living and thinking—the way I’ve done just for the prospect of freedom to ruin the second life after freedom. Nevertheless, I can still for a short time revel in my deliberations and creations that reflect the incorporation of the lost life, the same way a DVD player reflects some intricacies of science to someone as starved and appreciative as we might create a DVD-like creativity. For this writer who is also the hero, my job must show how what one seemingly honored in life but disappeared by the dynamics of life was real. So real that others scoffed at my essential feelings, defying my relative paltriness in relation to those former illusory, illustrious lives facing the end of times—the apex—where much is lost by everyone’s anxiety that even excludes my alchemical process. A process created by someone so possessed by his former grandeur he must reconcile his worth by the laws of the reverse and the inverse. So we begin my last book the way James Fenimore Cooper couldn’t with The Deerslayer by using myself as the model for my hero who finds redemption by discovering himself through his living travail and Spartan tenacity. A hero whose only redeeming trait is the freedom that he radiates by some mystic connection to the birds singing just before doomsday’s eerie rings.