Art Exists Because Reality Is Neither Real

I Feel That, In A Sense, The Writer Knows Nothing Any Longer. He Has No Moral Stance. He Offers The Reader The Contents Of His Own Head, A Set Of Options And Imaginative Alternatives. His Role Is That Of A Scientist, Whether On Safari Or In His Laboratory, Faced With An Unknown Terrain Or Subject. All He Can Do Is To Devise Various Hypotheses And Test Them Against The Facts.

The Geometry Of Landscape And Situation Seems To Create Its Own Systems Of Time, The Sense Of A Dynamic Element Which Is Cinematizing The Events Of The Canvas, Translating A Posture Or Ceremony Into Dynamic Terms. The Greatest Movie Of The 20th Century Is The Mona Lisa, Just As The Greatest Novel Is Gray's Anatomy.

I Think The Enemy Of Creativity In The World Today Is That So Much Thinking Is Done For You.

If Their Work Is Satisfying People Don't Need Leisure In The Old-fashioned Sense. No One Ever Asks What Newton Or Darwin Did To Relax, Or How Bach Spent His Weekends. At Eden-olympia Work Is The Ultimate Play, And Play The Ultimate Work.

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.