I will not add to the sorrow in this world

There's a story in this week's New Yorker by Jim Gavin. I've never heard of him. I will probably read the story, but I will not post on it. Why not? I'll tell you, I'm starting to feel sick every time I write a post for this blog about a book or a story that I don't really like that much. Why do I do this? Why bother? If these notes are to have any meaning or integrity for me or for any of the dozen of so of you who might be reading this, I have to honestly try to think about my reading and convey my thoughts about what I'm reading. I've devoted a great deal of my life to reading, and to writing, and I would say that reading and writing have literally saved me soul from oblivion. All that may be so, but why then would I criticize the work of a fellow writer, someone struggling just like me to gain some peace and salvation and to make sense of the world? I just won't do it anymore. There is enough sorrow in the world already without my adding to it. I'll still read a lot of new writers, I'm sure, and I still want to try to maintain this blog for my own pleasure and for the very few who have stumbled on it and might learn something or share something. However: I won't write about living writers except for the few who can take it, not that they're likely ever to know about this blog or to care about it if they did. As to the others, people like me, maybe more fortunate or successful (how else would I have come upon their work?), god bless you all - keep writing, I will offer you no hindrance, I will cause you no pain.