Reflections of a working writer and reader
Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome. Marguerite Duras
I didn’t read much during five weeks in Norway. Saving Room for Dessert by KC Constantine; I Curse the River of Time by Per Petterson; and Jane Smiley’s Private Life. I didn’t quite finish William Trevor’s Love and Summer on the plane home, so I don’t suppose that counts. Norway was great, met up with […]
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