The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night, dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here. And don’t be so earnest.
via Seamus Heaney, Acclaimed Irish Poet, Dies at 74 – NYTimes.com.
white pebble 