Every book has an intrinsic impossibility, which its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles.
It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale.
So it is that a writer writes many books. In each book, he intended several urgent and vivid points, many of which he sacrificed as the book's form hardened.
Private life, book life, took place where words met imagination without passing through the world.