From the Editor

The artist is the man who has nothing to say.

There is nothing there; the storehouse is empty from the demands of the unusually cold winter. Gazing out of the window into the garden shrouded by the morning fog, the muted light of the early morning barely penetrates the landscape. No plant has been spared from the coating of frost, most of them unfamiliar with the glittering ice crystals that cover the tips of their leaves. They will have to wait for the morning sun to break through the haze and bring some semblance of warmth, and the hope that the thawing will bring with it continued life. Only then will these plants know their fate. I can look out on this scene from the relative warmth of the house but also from the knowing of having seen this before — the long winters of Europe afforded many a chance to meet this landscape. Nothing appears to move, the human proclivity for movement seems to be halted as if in sympathy for nature, now frozen in time.

My desk is clear, there is none of the usual clutter, the debris of daily life — bills, junk mail, a card from a long-lost friend — all have been responded to or discharged to their appropriate locations. The desk is bare and I feel cold. The furnace has not yet defeated the cold of the night that crept in while the house and its inhabitants slept. The clean desk is as unfettered as the sheet of paper in front of me, a word or two, or perhaps even a thought tries to merge into the light of day. The early morning has always been a good time to write — the noise of everyday life is at a minimum, the demands of adult life are held at abeyance by the early hour. Unfortunately, this morning is marked by the sluggishness of an overworked mind; there is barely enough room to complete the calisthenics required to stretch this muscle. The pen makes marks on the paper, but even the handwriting feels unsatisfactory, as if this limb has forgotten how to put pen to paper. The little balls of