“It is easy to doubt yourself, because you look around at a
community of notions held by other writers, other intellectuals,
and they make you blush with guilt. Writing is supposed to be
difficult, agonizing, a dreadful exercise, a terrible occupation.”
“But, you see, my stories have led me through my life. They
shout, I follow. They run up and bite me on the leg—I respond by
writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I
finish, the idea lets go, and runs off.”
“That is the kind of life I've had. Drunk, and in charge of a
bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it. Drunk with life, that
is, and not knowing where off to next. But you're on your way
before dawn. And the trip? Exactly one half terror, exactly one
half exhilaration.”
“By the time many people are fourteen or fifteen, they have been divested
of their loves, their ancient and intuitive tastes, one by one, until
when they reach maturity there is no fun left, no zest, no gusto,
no flavor. Others have criticized, and they have criticized themselves,
into embarrassment. When the circus pulls in at five of a
dark cold summer morn, and the calliope sounds, they do not rise
and run, they turn in their sleep, and life passes by.”
“My ideas drove me to it, you see.
The more I did, the more I wanted to do. You grow ravenous.
You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can't sleep
at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you
in your bed. It is a grand way to live.”
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