“For my father, the road had to wind uphill both ways and be as difficult as possible.  Sadly, this was the sensibility he instilled in me when I set myself to the task of writing fiction.  It wasn’t until I brought him a story that was purposely confusing and obfuscating that he seemed at all impressed and pleased.  He said, smiling, “You made me work, son.”  He once said to me in a museum, when I complained about an illegible signature on a painting, “You don’t sign it because you want people to know you painted it, but because you love it.”  He was all wrong of course, but the sentiment was so beautiful that I wish to believe it now.  What he might have been trying to say, I suppose, thought he never would have even thought about it in these terms, was that art finds its form and that it is never a mere manifestation of life.”

-Percival Everett-

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