A hotel that appears in a mute register–in principle it is invisible, yet somehow, on this day, in this place (Willow Creek) we can see it. It is all brown. The roof slopes as the ground below the roof slopes, down.

Thinking today that we don’t need novels to make private lives public–to “bring them to light”–but to make our lives private again. Novels that cast shadows. Asocial novels. Hermetic novels. Hotel novels? Novels that live in the mountains. For some reason I’ve been reading literary theory.