'Perhaps the luminous novel is this thing that I started writing today,
just now. Maybe these sheets of paper are a warm-up exercise. [...]
But it's quite possible that if I go on writing - as I usually do - with
no plan, although this time I know very well what I want to say, things
will start to take shape, to come together. I can feel the familiar
taste of a literary adventure in my throat.
I'll take that as confirmation, then, and start describing what I think
was the beginning of my spiritual awakening - though nobody should
expect religious sermons at this point; they'll come later. It all began
with some ruminations prompted by a dog.'
A writer attempts to complete the novel for which he has been awarded a
big fat Guggenheim grant, though for a long time he succeeds mainly in
procrastinating - getting an electrician to rewire his living room so he
can reposition his computer, buying an armchair, or rather, two: 'In
one, you can't possibly read: it's uncomfortable and your back ends up
crooked and sore. In the other, you can't possibly relax: the hard
backrest means you have to sit up straight and pay attention, which
makes it ideal if you want to read.'
Insomniacs, romantics, and anyone who's ever written (or failed to
write) will fall in love with this compelling masterpiece told by a true
original, with all his infuriating faults, charming wit, and intriguing
musings.
