The Creative Act Is Not Pure. History

September 2001. A Sunny Day In New York. Many Of Us Who Are Writers Were At Work On The Transformation Of Life Into A Poem, Story, A Chapter Of A Novel, When Terror Pounced From The Sky, And The World Made Witness To It.

I Believe - I Know (there Are Not Many Things I Should Care To Dogmatize About, On The Subject Of Writing) That Writers Need Solitude, And Seek Alienation Of A Kind Every Day Of Their Working Lives. (and Remember, They Are Not Even Aware When And When Not They Are Working.) ... The Tension Between Standing Apart And Being Fully Involved; That Is What Makes A Writer.

I Don't Think I Am A Citizen Of The World; I Am Very Much A Citizen Of My Own Country. But My Own Country Is Closely Related To Other Parts Of The World And Influenced By What Happens There.

A Writer Doesn't Only Need The Time When He's Actually Writing - He Or She Has Got To Have Time To Think And Time Just To Let Things Work Out. Nothing Is Worse For This Than Society. Nothing Is Worse For This Than The Abrasive, If Enjoyable, Effect Of Other People.

The Solitude Of Writing Is Also Quite Frightening. It's Quite Close To Madness, One Just Disappears For A Day And Loses Touch.