Sometimes You Are Aware When

A Writer Writes A Book. People Read It. You Don't Know What They're Reading, Really. You Read A Review And Think, "that Is So Inaccurate. You Can't Have Been Reading My Book With Any Kind Of Attention, Because That Is All Wrong, That's Even The Wrong Name You're Including There." But These Reviewers Have Been Diminished In Importance, The Work Is So Little Respected. If You're Reviewed By A Real Critic, By James Wood Or Louis Menand, Then You Get Something That Is Informed, Interesting, And Highly Articulate. But The Average Review Doesn't Have That Kind Of Depth Anymore.

You Can Write About Other People And Their Ideas And Life Without Having Lived It, But Even Your Perception Of That Is Going To Be Colored By What You Know And What You Experience. And This Is Undeniable.

Events Need Their Invitation, Dissolutions Their Start.

I'd Given Up Everything To Be A Writer, And If I Didn't Then Go On To Do That - To Write - Then I Didn't Know What Would Happen To Me.

Normally, What You’re Envious Of Is A Book, Not A Writer: Standards, Ideas, Levels … Almost Nonexistent Things.