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Dear Reader,

This website has been sleeping, but I am about to awaken it. Or, if it is not in my power to awaken it, I will at least send it forth as a somnambulist. You may see it some night walking, arms out, on the edge of a precipice, as websites often do.

Strange things are going to start happening. Of course, strange things have already been happening. So perhaps I should say: strange things are going to continue happening. But since they haven’t been happening here–since, in fact, nothing has been happening here–I will stick with my original choice of word, however infelicitous.

What do I mean by strange? Well, when nothing happens for a long time, anything that happens is strange, isn’t it? The mere idea that something could happen is strange.

That is the beauty of suspended activity: it makes us much more sensitive to just how terribly strange everything is.

Sometimes I wish the whole world would stop. Stop and take a break. Or at least stop and take a breath. Though at this point I’d say a sabbatical of several centuries is in order.

But I know the world won’t stop, and I know I can’t make it stop. So I make myself stop.

And I make the world stop in myself.

But this, I know, is supposed to be about what’s about to start.

So, first, a new series:

I plan to post, in serial form, my responses to Thoreau’s essay, On Walking. Prepare yourself for the “pilot episode,” coming soon.

You can also look forward to a new address, which will probably contain some kind of update concerning the status of my next book.

Yes, I know what you are thinking: can such a thing exist?

To the bounded mind and perception of man, unlikelihood looks so much like impossibility that, nine times out of ten, it gets mistaken for it.

But I have not yet completely stopped writing. Not completely. Not yet.

The gods will no doubt squeeze a few more words out of my brain before all of this is finished.