In the city of flesh I travel without maps, a worried tourist: and Ottilie was a very Venice. I stumbled lost in the blue shade of her pavements. Here was a dreamy stillness, a swaying, the splash of an oar. Then, when I least expected it, suddenly I stepped out into the great square, the sunlight, and she was a flock of birds scattering with soft cries in my arms.
Where I went, no one could follow. Yet someone managed to hold my hand.
With the crime novels, its delightful to have protagonists I can revisit in book after book. Its like having a fictitious family.
What I was afraid of was my own grief, the weight of it, the ineluctable corrosive force of it, and the stark awareness I had of being, for the first time in my life, entirely alone, a Crusoe shipwrecked and stranded in the limitless wastes of a boundless and indifferent ocean.
That's one of the many things I hate about life, that it's a hideously cliched business.
I have this fantasy. I'm walking past a bookshop and I click my fingers and all my books go blank. So I can start again and get it right.
All one wants to do is make a small, finished, polished, burnished, beautiful object . . . I mean, that's all one wants to do. One has nothing to say about the world, or society, or morals or politics or anything else. One just wants to get the damn thing done, you know? Kafka had it right when he said that the artist is the man who has nothing to say. It's true. You get the thing done, but you don't actually have anything to communicate, apart from the object itself.
Dogs are dim creatures, do not speak to me of their good sense--have you ever heard of a team of tomcats hauling a sled across the frozen wastes?
Sleep is uncanny, I have always found it so, a nightly dress-rehearsal for being dead.
When I finish a sentence, after much labor, it's finished. A certain point comes at which you can't do any more work on it because you know it will kill the sentence.
Dostoevsky is such a bad writer it is hard to take him seriously as a novelist, though he is a wonderful philosopher.
I think I'm less the writer than I'm the written.
The world is not real for me until it has been pushed through the mesh of language.
No two things the same, the equals sign a scandal.
And indeed nothing had happened, a momentous nothing, just another of the great world's shrugs of indifference.
I've always been fascinated by physics and cosmology. It gets more and more scary the older you get.
It's great people still care about books, and it's great you can still fashion a life from literature.
The white May blossom swooned slowly into the open mouth of the grave.
I have never really got used to being on this earth. Sometimes I think our presence here is due to a cosmic blunder, that we were meant for another planet altogether, with other arrangements, and other laws, and other, grimmer skies. I try to imagine it, our true place, off on the far side of the galaxy, whirling and whirling. And the ones who were meant for here, are they out there, baffled and homesick, like us? No, they would have become extinct long ago. How could they survive, these gentle earthlings, in a world that was made to contain us.
I would be far more critical than any reviewer could be of my own work. So I simply don't read them.
The secret of survival is a defective imagination.
Throughout the 1960s and 1970s devoted Beckett readers greeted each successively shorter volume from the master with a mixture of awe and apprehensiveness; it was like watching a great mathematician wielding an infinitesimal calculus, his equations approaching nearer and still nearer to the null point.
Given the world that he created, it would be an impiety against God to believe in him.
Art is amoral, whether we accept this or not; it does not take sides. The finest fictions are cold at heart.
I had never liked, even feared a little, this wild reach of marsh and mud flats where everything seemed turned away from the land, looking off desperately toward the horizon as if in mute search for a sign of rescue.
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