Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.
As an experience, madness is terrific ... and in its lava I still find most of the things I write about.
It is part of the novelist's convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance.
I press to my centre, and find there is something there.
Language is wine upon the lips.
In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.