Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
In any of my pages in any of my books may life a perfect account of my secret experience of the world.
Inconveniently, books are all the pages in them, not just the ones you choose to read.
I'm an open book. But some of the pages are stuck together.
There is only as much space, only as much time, Only as much desire, only as many words, Only as many pages, only as much ink To accept all of us at light-speed Hurrying into the Promised Land Of oblivion that is waiting for us sooner or later.
Stella scribbledin thick black textaacross half the pagesof my best storybook,filled with people who venturedwhere their hearts took them.Beautiful worlds beyond mine.
For if we're destroyed, the knowledge is dead...We're nothing more than dust jackets for books...so many pages to a person...
Beginning a novel is always hard. It feels like going nowhere. I always have to write at least 100 pages that go into the trashcan before it finally begins to work. It's discouraging, but necessary to write those pages. I try to consider them pages -100 to zero of the novel.
We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the loveembodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.
Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.
The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?
At first, all is black and white.Black on white.That's where I'm walking, through pages.These pages.Sometimes it gets so that I have one foot in the pages and the words, and the other in what they speak of.
On plenty of days the writer can write three or four pages, and on plenty of other days he concludes he must throw them away.
Well, this is basically the end, so the answers should be in these next few pages. I doubt they will surprise you, but you never know. I don't know how smart or thick you are. You could be Albert Einstein for all I know, or some literary prizewinner, or maybe you're just middle of the road like me.