I got a nice new piano. I am giving my old one away. The piano we used a few weeks ago at 2nd Story Recording Studio has the long lost old Sorcerer piano in it, the one I recorded Dead Boy and certain songs from the last album on a few years ago!!! I was so happy to see it again. It seemed different. I tried to pretend that I recognized it. But it reminded me of the cat that changed color when it got a new owner. Norah Jones recorded her first record on that piano too. Anyway it sounded great.
Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.