I loved words. I love to sing them and speak them and even now, I must admit, I have fallen into the joy of writing them.
I read a lot of first chapters and took delight in hurling books across the room if I knew I would not be reading the second chapter. Then I’d go and pick them up again, because they are books, after all, and we are not savages.
Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.
For half a century I have been writing my thoughts in prose and in verse – history, philosophy, drama, romance, satire, ode and song. I have tried all. But I feel I have not said the thousandth part of what is in me. When I go down to the grave I can say, like many other, “I have finished my day’s work.” But I cannot say, “I have finished my life.” My day’s work will begin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight, it opens on the dawn.
I write out of a greed for lives and language. A need to listen to the orchestra of living. It is often said that a writer is more alive than his peers. But I believe he might also be a sort of narcoleptic who requires constant waking up by his own imaginative work. He is closer to sleep and dream, and his memory is more haunted, thus more precise.
Writing is the only profession where no one considers you ridiculous if you earn no money.