which is to say unsentimental, with my suffering. So often the creative impulse is an impulse to build something that, in the end, its maker can’t destroy, something that outgrows intention. Isn’t a town also indestructible in this sense? Don’t we submit to it, doesn’t it already sculpt us, before we even begin to think it was we who built it, we who dug our hands into the clay of the ordinary and made something permanent and irrepressible?
