I Am As I Am. The World

When I Began To Write Seriously, 40 Years Ago Now, My Chosen Form Was The Novel.

A Well-off Plastic Surgeon Can Suffer Just As Much As An Irish Lad Who Has Been Abused Or Whatever.

All The Fear In The World, And The Violence That Comes From The Fear, And The Hatred That Comes From The Violence, And The Lonliness That Comes From The Hatred. All The Unhappiness, All The Cruelty, It Gathers Like Clouds In The Air, And Grows Dark And Cold And Heavy, And Falls Like Grey Snow In Thick Layers Over The Land. Then The World Is Muffled And Numb, And No One Can Hear Each Other Or Feel Each Other. Think How Sad And Lonely That Must Be.

He Accepted What Each Moment Brough Him, And Never Troubled Himself With Matters That Were Outside His Control.

Madly, Futilely, I Wrote Novel After Novel, Eight In All, That Failed To Find A Publisher. I Persisted Because For Me The Novel Was The Supreme Literary Form: Not Just One Among Many, Not A Relic Of The Past, But The Way We Communicate To One Another The Subtlest Truths About This Business Of Living.