On Edna O'Brien

What book hasn’t been written that you’d like to read?
The life and loves of the stars, as they float, mingle and collide in the galaxies.
Who would you want to write your life story?
Colum McCann.
What books do you find yourself returning to again and again?
“Heart of Darkness”; “Light in August”; “Out of Africa”; “The Rings of Saturn”; the short stories of Kafka; “Sabbath’s Theater”; “Disgrace”; Virginia Woolf’s letters and diaries; “Ariel,” by Sylvia Plath; the “Collected Poems” of Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Bishop, Czeslaw Milosz, Seamus Heaney, Osip Mandelstam, Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, Wallace Stevens.
What books are you embarrassed not to have read yet?
“Don Quixote.”
Read More: New York Times


William Faulkner

On Dorothy Parker

"She seemed able to produce the well-turned phrase for any occasion. A friend remembered sitting next to her at the theater when the news was announced of the death of the stolid Calvin Coolidge. “How can they tell?” whispered Mrs. Parker."

Do you think economic security an advantage to the writer?

Yes. Being in a garret doesn’t do you any good unless you’re some sort of a Keats. The people who lived and wrote well in the twenties were comfortable and easy living. They were able to find stories and novels, and good ones, in conflicts that came out of two million dollars a year, not a garret. As for me, I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable, I’d rather have money. I hate almost all rich people, but I think I’d be darling at it. At the moment, however, I like to think of Maurice Baring’s remark: “If you would know what the Lord God thinks of money, you have only to look at those to whom he gives it.” I realize that’s not much help when the wolf comes scratching at the door, but it’s a comfort.


That’s not showing much respect for your fellow women, at least not the writers.

As artists they’re not, but as providers they’re oil wells; they gush. Norris said she never wrote a story unless it was fun to do. I understand Ferber whistles at her typewriter. And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word. I’m a feminist, and God knows I’m loyal to my sex, and you must remember that from my very early days, when this city was scarcely safe from buffaloes, I was in the struggle for equal rights for women. But when we paraded through the catcalls of men and when we chained ourselves to lampposts to try to get our equality—dear child, we didn’t foresee those female writers. Or Clare Boothe Luce, or Perle Mesta, or Oveta Culp Hobby.

 More: Paris Review


Llevaba días, semanas, echando de menos tener conexión a internet en casa para poder continuar actualizando el blog. Quería volver a escribir a diario. Y ahora que por fin tengo, se me ocurren tantas primeras frases por las que empezar, tantos temas, que se me enredan en la cabeza, se me enganchan al pelo, las cejas, la nariz, la boca, y ya casi no puedo respirar.