I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.
Danger and anger are everywhere. Love is the rarity, the gem buried in the core of the mine, the outpost of God.
I simply write what I want, wish, long to write.... The state of human life and the god or demon within. The constant internal war that being alive can conjure.
The worst vulgarity is to avoid vulgarity solely on the grounds that it is vulgar.
He sat by her, watching every gesture she made, as if he would paint her portrait afterward.
It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.
I was reading some complex books in my own youth-and no, I didnt always understand every word, let alone every concept-but I got the main thrust, which was like a lifeline in a fluctuating world.
Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.
The dictate of the light says: Know yourself and what you are. The dark replies, By all means, but then become afraid.
I came up with a parallel Venice called Venus. set in a parallel Venice about 1701.
I haven't changed. Something's happened to me, that's all.
It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.
She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.
I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.
I just love writing. It's magical, it's somewhere else to go, it's somewhere much more dreadful, somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere I feel I belong, possibly more than in the so-called real world.
I hardly ever work from a synopsis -- I find they act like chains.
I love writers all across the board, but one who influenced me very directly at the beginning was Mary Renault.
It was so useful to lie with the truth.
For me, everyone I write of is real. I have little true say in what they want, what they do or end up as (or in). Their acts appall, enchant, disgust or astound me. Their ends fill me with retributive glee, or break my heart. I can only take credit (if I can even take credit for that) in reporting the scenario. This is not a disclaimer. Just a fact.
Robespierre, crippled and blind, has yet to be healed to the knowledge that service - his desire - is a deed of savage-speaking gentleness, not soft-spoken savagery.
Now, writing every day, and being paid for it and encouraged to do it, it was as if, in the midst of the clich?d dark and stormy night, I found the magical inn, its windows golden lit, and Summer was due to start tomorrow. I can only work at one thing well. Deprive me of that, and my "back-up plan," even now, will be the empty, stormy, darkened heath -- where, incidentally, even unpublished, somehow I'll still be writing.
World's flying like birds; my car's in flight. The city lights are spattered on my windshield like the fragments of the night. And I'm in flight. The sky's a wheel, a merry-go-round of wings and snow and steel, and fire. We'll tread the sky, we'll ride the scarlet horses.
If you run away from trouble, it always follows.
I tend not to analyse my work, though I'm frequently intrigued when other people take time to do so.
I am interested in most mythology. Celtic or Christian no more than anything else. I will admit to a pleasure and sense of hope in what I see as the basic teachings of Christ, stripped of the nonsense that has sometimes been accumulated about them and the embarrassing misunderstanding.
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