Well, I would wait, day and night, until I knew what to say. Humbly now, with no vaulting dream of achieving a vast unity, I wanted to try to build a bridge of words between me and that world outside, that world which was so distant and elusive that it seemed unreal. I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all, to keep alive in our hearts a sense of the inexpressibly human. Everything has been said, but not everything has been said superbly, and even if it had been, everything must be said freshly over and over again. That attitude will freeze you right away.
Business is what people do.
Sometimes they do it with other people and sometimes they do it to other people. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice.