The truth is, I don’t believe all that much in writing. Starting with my own. Being a writer is pleasant—no, pleasant isn’t the word—it’s an activity that has its share of amusing moments, but I know of other things that are even more amusing, amusing in the same way that literature is for me. Holding up banks, for example. Or directing movies. Or being a gigolo. Or being a child again and playing on a more or less apocalyptic soccer team. Unfortunately, the child grows up, the bank robber is killed, the director runs out of money, the gigolo gets sick and then there’s no other choice but to write. For me, the word “writing” is the exact opposite of the word “waiting.” Instead of waiting, there is writing. Well, I’m probably wrong—it’s possible that writing is another form of waiting, of delaying things. I’d like to think otherwise. But, as I said, I’m probably wrong.
Roberto Bolaño, in a 2001 email interview with Carmen Boullosa. First published in Bomb and then collected in Melville House’s The Last Interview.
I am worn out with books. I am moving and they weigh me down. They plague me and leave me with conflicted emotions. This is what I wrote about it. http://themetabug.com/2014/08/16/what-things-are-worth-books/
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Well said, although writing maybe making the intangible tangible, all that ink on all those lines, for the writer shall live more than a single life, but they may die only once. Reminds me of this piece (Writer http://wp.me/s4lIMw-writer)
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