His characters—men with importunate appetites and unfortunate habits of deception—are uneasily suspended between the desire for love and the impulse towards flight.
Memory is a snare, pure and simple; it alters, it subtly rearranges the past to fit the present.
―Mario Vargas Llosa
Imagine this. You’re a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it’s directly overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep.
And then one day, something inside you dies. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die. That’s hysteria siberiana.
—Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
Few men have the natural strength to honour a friend’s success without envy.
—Aeschylus, playwright and soldier, c. 525 BC—c. 456 BC
The narrator [is] a weak man irresistible to women. Although [he] has a way with women, his charms are mixed with passivity. He whips his romances up to a crescendo but can take them no further and he shatters his own life as well as those of his lovers.
— Chiyo Uno, Confessions of Love
You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding. And sometimes that is enough. But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you… Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn’t seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.
—Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of The Wind
Each time out should be a swing for the fences. Don’t do base-running drills. You can do these on your own time.
—Tobias Wolff
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
My method back then was very much a fiction writer’s approach to journalism. I began to think of the way you world start a short story and begin with a character, and you hold that pen in your hand, and push it along, and wait to see what will develop. I had this theory that I would sort of put myself out there, and it was as if I was the pen, letting my own intuitions and circumstances guide me.
—Francisco Goldman
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
The narrator of my nonfiction pieces is not the same person I am—she is a lot more articulate and thinks of much cleverer things to say that I usually do.
—Janet Malcolm
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
All of these declarations of what writing ought to be, which I had myself—though, thank god I had never committed them to paper—I think are nonsense… You write what you write, and then either it holds up or it doesn’t hold up. There are no rules or particular sensibilities. I don’t believe in that at all anymore.
—Jamaica Kincaid
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
The dream, surely, that we all have, is to write this beautiful paagraph that actually is describing something but at the same time in another voice is writing a commentary on its own creation, without having to be a story about a writer.
—Ian McEwan
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
I’ve never thought of beauty and truth as equivalent in any way. Some truths are ugly, sometimes beautiful, very often ambiguous and invisible. It’s that ambiguous and invisible realm I’m always reaching for in my writing.
Because when we retrieve a memory, we don’t retrieve the original but rather our last retrieval of that memory: we don’t walk around with original, pure imprints of our past. We edit them through the present. Neuroscientists call this reconsolidation. Freud called it nachträglichkeit.
Reading is the avenue to writing, and after a while, the sheer bulk of influences begins to eliminate the question of influence. Even when my memory is spotty for a particular work I loved, I think it lives inside me in some form. Books we respond to become us. They don’t remain intact, of course, or unedited in our recollection, but nobody really writes alone.
—Siri Hustvedt
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers
What the novelist needs is not diverse opinions but a personal system of storytelling upon which his opinions can take a firm stand.
Women often act as mediums in my novels. They guide the protagonist to “places out of the ordinary,” and they make the story move.
What I want to do is write about lots of different characters in lots of different situations, and that way to create stories with greater breadth. New character types are beginning to appear in my books because I know now how to write them.
—Haruki Murakami
Taken from The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers