O f late, I have come to sense within myself an accumulation of all things that cannot find adequate expression via an objective artistic form such as the novel. A lyric poet of twenty might manage it, But I am twenty no longer, and have never been a poet at any rate. I have groped around, therefore, for some other form more suited to such personal utterances and have come up with a kind of hybrid between confession and criticism, a subtle equivocal mode that one might call "confidential criticism."   I see it as a twilight genre between the night of confession and the daylight of criticism. The "I" with which I shall occupy myself will not be the "I" that relates back strictly to myself, but something else, some residue, that remains after all the other words I have uttered have flowed back into me, something that neither relates back nor flows back.   As I pondered the nature of that "I", I was driven to the conclusion that the "I" in question corresponded precisely with the physical space that I occupied. What I was seeking, in short, was a language of the body." (M.Y, SS)

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