diary / by Edward Mullany


I told my friend who is writing a book about saints that she herself reminds me of a saint, insofar as the way she has arranged her life, or the way the circumstances of her life have arranged themselves, with or without her intention, has come to resemble, to my mind, that of certain men and women who lived centuries ago, in communities in the desert, engaged in prayer and the study of biblical texts, though of course my friend does not live in the desert, but in an apartment here in the city, in a neighborhood not far from my own, where any number of noises or distractions can beset her, and where, it seems, no one shows an interest in what she is doing, or believes that it will sell, though when I mention this she becomes indignant, and tells me she is neither a saint nor a person who cares about revenue, but is merely a writer, like any other, who will not abuse her talent by producing work based on what the market tells her is valuable, a statement that does little to dissuade me from my impression, though I do not mention it again.