The Morning I Woke Up And It

Literature Exists Inside The Language. It's Made Of Words. It's Not Made Of Ideas And It's Not Made Of Concepts, Of Psychological Analysis. It's Made Of Words. In The Same Way In Which Music Is Made Of Notes And A Painting Is Made Of Lines Of Colors, The Matter Of Literature Are Words.

Imagination Needs Food Like Every Dog And Every Cat And Every Bird And Every Fish.

Many Intellectuals In America And In Europe, They Are In The Habit Of Taking Sides: Who Are The Bad Guys? Who Are The Good Guys? They Launch A Demonstration Against The Bad Guys, Sign A Petition In Favor Of The Good Guys, And Going To Sleep Feeling Well About Themselves.

The Battlefield Is First And Foremost Horrible Stenches, Not Sights, Not Sounds, But Stenches. They Don't Travel Well Into Literature.

… That Sour Blend Of Loneliness And Lust For Recognition, Shyness And Extravagance, Deep Insecurity And Self-intoxicated Egomania, That Drives Poets And Writers Out Of Their Rooms To Seek Each Other Out, To Rub Shoulders With One Another, Bully, Joke, Condescend, Feel Each Other, Lay A Hand On A Shoulder Or An Arm Round A Waist, To Chat And Argue With Little Nudges, To Spy A Little, Sniff Out What Is Cooking In Other Pots, Flatter, Disagree, Collude, Be Right, Take Offence, Apologise, Make Amends, Avoid Each Other, And Seek Each Other’s Company Again.