A couple of years ago I re-read two of these first three manuscripts. I still have them. They’re not terrible. But they are excruciating. Scanning a paragraph, I want to put myself up against a wall and slap the hell out of myself, and I would if I didn’t have compassion for all of us who are compelled by the nature of life and the structure of the internal universe to go through this ordeal and initiation. There seems to be no way to make the passage easier, nor any method to eliminate the pain. The lessons can’t be taught. The agony cannot be inoculated against. The process is about pain.
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