The miracle of turning inklings into thoughts and thoughts into words and words into metal and print and ink never palls for me.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
I remember the absolute joy I used to get out of writing. The purity of imagining something and then putting it down on paper - it was such a pleasure. I read whatever I could get my hands on, from 'Great Expectations' to 'The Thorn Birds.'
The fact of the matter is that the most unexpected and miraculous thing in my life was the arrival in it of poetry itself - as a vocation and an elevation almost.
Poetry had great powers over me from my childhood, and today the poems live in my memory which I read at the age of 7 or 8 years and which drove me to desperate attempts at imitation.
My first novel was a challenge to myself. No one had an inkling that I was working on it.
One of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.
Writing poetry, which for me was then saying how I felt about this and that, didn't help me to understand the world I lived in.
Writing gave me the world.
I can only write a book like 'The Tin Drum' or 'From the Diary of a Snail' at a special period of my life. The books came about because of how I felt and thought at the time.
As a child, what captivated me was reading the poems myself and realizing that there was a world without material substance which was nevertheless as alive as any other.
I decided to become an author when my grandmother taught me to write, when I was six. I can still recall the sensation of being able to turn words into stories. It was a miracle.
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