Pity the poor in spirit who know neither the enchantment nor the beauty in language.
Do you want to see my pockets? They are quite empty. I have not filled my life and my cupboards with all sorts of goodies. I have lived for what I did and I have loved what I did. And I've also bled for what I did.
It wasn't easy.
I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
Oh blessed art, how often in dark hours when the savage ring of life tightens around me have you kindled warm love in my heart and transported me to a better world.
I develop a fascination for a veritable parade of unsuitables, renewing my ability to identify, acquire and germinate an unhealthy obsession. I am not unlucky in love, I am unlikely. The state of play goes right back to notions of collection, to my propensity for strays, to my undone romanticism …
I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free.
Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate.
She was a dramatist. For the past ten years she had fed her imagination on extremes of engagement and solitude.
She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.
Among my most prized possessions are words that I have never spoken.
She is a woman palpably meant for happiness … and yet casually, it seems, she has chosen solitude.
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
“Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.”
Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.
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