'... his own wish to write (to fish with the poet in him) interrupts his wish to read, which would, according to his way of thinking, mean that his writing is continuously a matter of interrupting writing, genuine writing being a matter of breaking in upon something, call this meditation, or silence, or call it language, or the present.'

With whom, for whom, to whom, do others do what they do? Us, sometimes; but also others still. So our interest in what others do may range far.

Caring what others do means being interested in knowing what they do.

Can you make good on a confession?

You might try to set things right or make things even to make good on an apology. In confessing, what you owe is the truth. To whom is it owed?

If you're guilty, you're meant to pay; if you're ashamed, you're already paying—or overpaying.

Those to whom one confesses and those to whom one apologizes.

We confess guilt to those we have wronged; and to others who may hardly know us. (This is one way confession can be hard; as if we are introducing ourselves as bad people.)

To confess shame we may need those who know us best; we need not have wronged them, nor even to have done anything they would fault us for.

What's between us is sometimes what we let pass; and sometimes what we refuse to let pass, if only between us.