Or Notes for Pedants and Spoilsports

It’s altogether easy to lose your sense of wonder. Especially when questions can be answered instantly.

But it isn’t the answer that kills the magic.

It’s the speed. It’s the lack of space.

Mystery is a living thing and needs room to breath.

One cannot write weird fiction or write at all without the animating force of wonder.

Why describe a twilight Appalachian brook if it’s just rainwater lazing through rock and dirt?

If its suggestions are nothing more than the inevitable electric pulses stirring a chemical stew whose aim is to leave behind a profusion of bones?

Yes, in such a world of concrete half truths. In this world that is the foundation of life there can be no mystery…no art.

How glad I am that I’ve been given the space to wander, to spy the stairs and landing, and to ascend through the door into the house of Magic where true life dwells.

For a house is not merely the foundation.

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