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Peace. The upland serenity of high altitude, the openness of grassland without indigenous bush or trees; the greening, yellowing or silver-browning that prevailed, according to season.

Nadine Gordimer

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Attitude Bush Grasland Gret Indigenous Openness Primacy Serenity Silver Tree Word Yellow

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Writing is making sense of life.
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I couldn’t be sufficiently interested in human beings to be a writer if I had contempt for human beings.
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Communists are the last optimists.
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My answer is: Recognize yourself in others
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The function of a writer is to make sense of life. It is such a mystery, it changes all the time, like the light.
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Written words still have the amazing power to bring out the best and worst of human nature
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Literature is one of the few areas left where black and white feel some identity of purpose; we all struggle under censorship.
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I shall never write an autobiography, I’m much too jealous of my privacy for that.
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In a certain sense a writer is ‘selected’ by his subject – his subject being the consciousness of his own era.
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I’m a candle flame that sways in currents of air you can’t see. You need to be the one who steadies me to burn.
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I cannot live with someone who can’t live without me.
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Humans, the only self-regarding animals, blessed or cursed with this torturing higher faculty, have always wanted to know why.
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Any writer of any worth at all hopes to play only a pocket-torch of light – and rarely, through genius, a sudden flambeau – into the bloody yet beautiful labyrinth of human experience, of being.
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If I dreamt this, while walking, walking in the London streets, the subconscious of each and every other life, past and present, brushing me in passing, what makes it real? Writing it down.
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The solitude of writing is also quite frightening. It’s quite close to madness, one just disappears for a day and loses touch.
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Exile as a mode of genius no longer exists; in place of Joyce we have the fragments of work appearing in Index on Censorship.
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