writers [Theme] Page 4

I began to have a premonition that the characters in the novel were not made for real life. I knew Billy, her flaws and anxieties, her innocence and vulnerability. In a way, I felt responsible for what happened to her.

I didn't spare Billy in my stories, but it had no effect on me. She was a fictional character, a pure abstraction that existed solely in my imagination and in the imagination of the readers. A heroine whose material existence was reduced to just a few lines printed on slips of paper. And now the creature has risen against its creator!

- Nobody knows that he is a writer. Others tell him about it.

The novel is not reality, and the narrator should not be confused with its creator.

Writing a novel is tricky and tricky business.

I take off the cap from the pen and start writing. All my life I've been doing just that. He wrote, drawn by a double contradictory impulse: to erect walls and open doors. Walls - to protect reality from destructive cruelty, and doors - to break out into a parallel world, the same reality, but not as it is, but as it should be.

A person does not write in order to pass for a writer. And in order to know in silence the love that lacks all love.

It's a writer's privilege, isn't it? Invent stories and thus challenge reality. Not only to make her better, but also to fight her on her own territory. Explore it, so that later it is more adroit to subvert. To know it, in order to counter it with a clear conscience in return for another world.

When I surrounded myself with books and immersed myself in a creative environment, my soul became lighter. I physically felt all my anxieties subside.

Any novel - like any movie and any theatrical play - is often the fruit of many years of hard work, doubt and rethinking.

When I was unhappy, when there was no one to exchange a word with, I had my characters. I knew that some of them were even more unhappy than me. It was far from consolation, more like a sense of brotherhood.

Wanted to be a writer so you could bully your characters?

With a sigh, I remembered Nabokov, who called his characters convicts, slaves in a world in which he was absolute

I have known for a long time that the artistic world obeys its own laws, but I still underestimated the power of these laws.