The murmur of the snarkmatrix…

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My Father's Suitcase
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Orhan Pamuk’s Nobel lecture, reprinted in The New Yorker, rocks:

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words.

(BTW, Io, Saturnalia!)

December 24, 2006 / Uncategorized

2 comments

Io, Saturnalia, every one.

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