What She Wants To Say Has To

I Revise Constantly, As I Go Along And Then Again After I've Finished A First Draft. Few Of My Novels Contain A Single Sentence That Closely Resembles The Sentence I First Set Down. I Just Find That I Have To Keep Zapping And Zapping The English Language Until It Starts To Behave In Some Way That Vaguely Matches My Intentions.

There's Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined.

Virginia Woolf Came Along In The Early Part Of The Century And Essentially Said Through Her Writing, Yes, Big Books Can Be Written About The Traditional Big Subjects. There Is War. There Is The Search For God. These Are All Very Important Things.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

One Always Has A Better Book In One's Mind Than One Can Manage To Get Onto Paper.