Reading was my escape and my comfort, my consolation, my stimulant of choice: reading for the pure pleasure of it, for the beautiful stillness that surrounds you when you hear an author’s words reverberating in your head.
A writer is a world trapped in a person.
Victor Hugo (via nestingcas)
[Sometimes a writer is many worlds trapped in a person]
If a story is in you, it has to come out.
The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.
—Marina Tsvetaeva, from “I know the truth” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
I’m so odd, and I’m so limited, and I’m so different from the ordinary human being—so you say. I have a strong suspicion that I’m the simplest of you all, and that its my extreme transparency that baffles you. I don’t think I ever feel anything but the most ordinary emotions.
Books Matter. That’s all I have to say.
What interests me about novelists as a species is the obsessiveness of the activity, the fact that novelists have to go on writing. I think that probably must come from a sense of the irrecoverable. In every novelist’s life there is some more acute sense of loss than with other people, and I suppose I must have felt that. I didn’t realize it, I suppose, till the last ten or fifteen years. In fact you have to write novels to begin to understand this. There’s a kind of backwardness in the novel…an attempt to get back to a lost world.
Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it.
My books are water; those of the great geniuses is wine. Everybody drinks water.