“How’d you like to have an office there?”
“In the clouds?”
“At the top of the building.”
“The human equivalent of clouds.”
“They can’t help it. They’re human. They’ve forgotten how to be in the clouds.”
“Forgot or too afraid.”
“I wonder what the clouds look like from in there.”
“Not as pretty as out here.”
“I’m sad for them. Think of all they are missing.”
“They’ll learn one day.”
“Hopefully, while alive.”
“If not, that’s where we come in.”
They sat in silent contemplation.
It must be wonderful to learn how to fly.
Some books come to you…. They are bonuses, gifts. You do not have to kill some little part of your flesh to dredge them up. This is a fatal shade mystical, but it is almost as if you are serving as agent for a book which wants to get itself written.
~Norman Mailer, “Mr. Mailer Interviews Himself,” in
The New York Times Book Review, 1967 September 17th
Work on a good piece of writing proceeds on three levels: a musical one, where it is composed; an architectural one, where it is constructed; and finally, a textile one, where it is woven.
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.