There Are Men Who Would

I Have A Small Room To Write In. One Wall Is Completely Covered In Books. And I Face The Window With The Curtain Closed To Stop The Light Hitting The Computer.

If You Try To Control It Too Much, The Book Is Dead. You Have To Let It Fall Apart Quite Early On And Let It Start Doing Its Own Thing. And That Takes Nerve, Not To Panic That The Book You Were Going To Write Is Not The Book You Will Have At The End Of The Day.

We Have Lost The Art Of Public Tenderness, These Small Gestures Of Wiping And Washing; We Have Forgotten How Abjectly The Body Welcomes A Formal Touch.

The Truth. The Dead Want Nothing Else. It Is The Only Thing That They Require.

Only Bad Writers Think That Their Work Is Really Good.