His father dies.
“There is a passage in Hemingway’s ‘Fathers and Sons’ . . . that has always meant a lot to me: ‘His father was with him, suddenly,
in deserted orchards and in new-ploughed fields, in thickets, on small hills, or when going through dead grass, whenever splitting wood
or hauling water, by grist mills, cider mills, and dams, and always with open fires.’”
—From a conversation with Reed College students in 2001
Rents a room on the second floor of an old cannery above the Columbia River in order to have space to edit books and confer with guests.
“There are ships out the window, and an occasional sea lion under the building. It’s a little hard to concentrate, but it’s wonderful.”
—From notes made in 2000
Photographs in clearcuts in Clatsop and Pacific counties, often with Kerstin. He discovers at one point a light leak in the bellows of his beloved
Plaubel Makina camera, and in despair throws more than forty undeveloped rolls into the wastebasket. Kerstin finds and retrieves them.
Many of the negatives prove salvageable.
Spends part of September in Halfway, Oregon.
“The events of 9/11 and their aftermath have made available to me a new painter, Watteau. There we are in our fine clothing in a dreamlike world,
waiting, unable to change—the landscape sweet and terrifying.”
—From notes made in 2001