What was that again?, Stephens thought. The creative impulse is unique to each of us?
Yes, and expressing that uniqueness authentically takes courage. And for me often, it is a lonely pursuit.
Still …
Still, what?
I rise. I put on the coffee. It is morning, the day after the tragedy of Willard Comstock. There’s a police car down at the Comstocks goat dairy. Or should I say, down at Prudence’s. Alicia is with her. Cecilia has returned to her apartment.
Turn it around.
The destructive impulse is unique to each of us. T.S. Eliot spoke of removing the inhibition that lets the creative flow. Willard removed an inhibition. Snapped, Prudence said. Had enough. Let the self-destructive flow.
Courage or madness? Or maybe he felt remorse after he left the tavern and tried to return home, but lost control of his truck. Deliberate? An accident?
Is negating the inhibition for self-destructiveness a double negative that does not become a positive?
The mystery.
Why did he snap? Alicia may find out.
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