He ought to have a hundred hands to write,
for what can a single pen do here....
∆ Goethe: Rome, 1786
“What can a book give you that a movie doesn’t, that art doesn’t, that drugs don’t?” he asks. “A book can contain an enormous amount of information—more than your mind can handle. But it can deliver it in a way that feels like a dream, like you’re being whispered to in a dream. I’m always trying to get in back of people’s brains and, you know, maybe tickle. I’m not going to say what I’m tickling, but I’m tickling something.”
A writer’s work is the product of laziness, you see. A writer’s work essentially consists of taking his mind off things, of thinking about something else, of daydreaming, of not being in any hurry to go to sleep but to imagine something . . . And then comes the actual writing, and that’s his trade. That is, I don’t think the two things are incompatible. Besides, I think that when one is writing something that’s more or less good, one doesn’t feel it to be a chore; one feels it to be a form of amusement. A form of amusement that doesn’t exclude the use of intelligence, just as chess doesn’t exclude it, and chess is a game I’m very fond of and would like to know how to play — I’ve always been a poor chess player.