The strange and terrible thing coming clear to her about the world of the future, as she now pictured it, was that she would not exist there. She would only walk around, and open her mouth and speak, and do this and that. She would not really be there…. What would she care about? How would she know that she was alive?
from Runaway by Alice Munro
All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.
We are what we pretend to be.
I am not a person to say the words out loud
I think them strongly, or let them hunger from the page:
know it from there, from my silence, from somewhere other
than my tongue
the quiet love
the silent rage
Keri Hulme, from “Against the Small Evil Voices” (via stuckupteen)