Fiction May Be, Whatever Else, An Exercise

That's One Good Thing About The Way Life Is, That No One Can Know You If You Don't Let Them.

That Odd Capacity For Destitution, As If By Nature We Ought To Have So Much More Than Nature Gives Us. As If We Are Shockingly Unclothed When We Lack The Complacencies Of Ordinary Life. In Destitution, Even Of Feeling Or Purpose, A Human Being Is More Hauntingly Human And Vulnerable To Kindnesses Because There Is The Sense That Things Should Be Otherwise, And Then The Thought Of What Is Wanting And What Alleviation Would Be, And How The Soul Could Be Put At Ease, Restored. At Home. But The Soul Finds Its Own Home If It Ever Has A Home At All.

Somebody Who Had Read Lila Asked Me, ‘why Do You Write About The Problem Of Loneliness?’ I Said: ‘it’s Not A Problem. It’s A Condition. It’s A Passion Of A Kind. It’s Not A Problem. I Think That People Make It A Problem By Interpreting It That Way.’ 

I Think To The Degree Writers Are Serious, There Is A Greater Tendency For Them To Write To Themselves, Because They're Trying To Compose Their Own Thoughts. They Are Trying To Find Out What Is In Their Minds, Which Is The Great Mystery. Finding Out Who You Are, What Is In Your Head, And What Kind Of Companion You Are To Yourself In The Course Of Life. I Do Think People Have Very Profound Lives Of Which They Say Virtually Nothing.

I Am Delighted If People Find That Kind Of Sustenance In Novels, But Perhaps It's Because They Don't Read The Scripture That They Are Comparing It To, Which Would Perhaps Provide Deeper Sustenance Than Many Contemporary Novels.