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The wastebasket is a writer”s best friend.
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The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn’t behave that way you would never do anything.
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The writer does the most good who gives his reader the most knowledge and takes from him the least time.
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The writer has a grudge against society, which he documents with accounts of unsatisfying sex, unrealized ambition, unmitigated loneliness, and a sense of local and global distress. The square, overpopulation, the bourgeois, the bomb and the cocktail party are variously identified as sources of the grudge. There follows a little obscenity here, a dash of philosophy there, considerable whining overall, and a modern satirical novel is born.
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The writer is either a practicing recluse or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one; or both. Usually both.
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The writer is more concerned to know than to judge.
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The writer isn’t made in a vacuum. Writers are witnesses. The reason we need writers is because we need witnesses to this terrifying century.
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The writer may very well serve a movement of history as its mouthpiece, but he cannot of course create it.
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The writer merely has some people in his mind, and an incident or two, also a locality. He knows the selected locality, and he strusts that he can plunge those people into incidents with interesting results.
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The writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
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The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he’s written it.
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The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.
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The writer writes in order to teach himself, to understand himself, to satisfy himself; the publishing of his ideas, though it brings gratification, is a curious anticlimax.
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The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the Ode on a Grecian Urn is worth any number of old ladies.
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Then he said to Scheherazade: Sister, for the sake of Allah, tell us a story that will help pass the night.
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There are authors who write to communicate, there are authors who write to impress themselves.
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There are some books that refuse to be written. They stand their ground year after year and will not be persuaded. It isn’t because the book is not there and worth being written–it is only because the right form of the story does not present itself. There is only one right form for a story and if you fail to find that form the story will not tell itself.
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There are thousands of thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen and writes.
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There is no royal path to good writing; and such paths as do exist do not lead through neat critical gardens, various as they are, but through the jungles of self, the world, and of craft.
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There is nothing fantastic or ultradimansional about crab grass… unless you are an sf writer, in which case pretty soon you are viewing crab grass with suspicion. What are it’s real motives? And who sent it here in the first place? It only looks like crab grass. That’s what they want us to think it is. One day the crab grass suit will fall off and their true identity will be revealed. By then the Pentagon will be full of crab grass and it’ll be too late. The crab grass, or what we took to be crab grass, will dictate terms.
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