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Oct. 14th, 2014
Tuesday Morning
Oct. 14th, 2014 08:53 amThe first cold night of the season. I had to lower my window, almost shutting it, and I pulled my blanket over me instead of leaving it curled up at the foot of the bed. I also woke up with that worrisome tickle in my throat, hoping that I did not catch something from the night's chill.
We made it past another rough summer in some comfort and ease. It feels more precious now, because you really cannot count on having another year. You do not know which will be the last good summer. Maybe that was the one.
We made it past another rough summer in some comfort and ease. It feels more precious now, because you really cannot count on having another year. You do not know which will be the last good summer. Maybe that was the one.
William F. Buckley on Writing
Oct. 14th, 2014 03:45 pm<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
I have never succeeded in pre-structuring a book. I’ve never started a novel knowing what the end is going to be. When I get about halfway through—and I go into this only because I assume it’s of some technical interest to other writers—I then need to stop and force myself to figure out how the Gordian knot is going to be severed, because at this point there are a lot of characters and dramatic questions that need to be consummated.
[...]
my rule is to devote a very long chapter, close to the beginning, to the development of a single character. In book one it’s Blackford Oakes, which is natural. In book two, Stained Glass, it was Erika, a Soviet agent. I lifted her as though Vladimir Nabokov had a daughter, not his son, Dimitri. I confided my invention to Nabokov, which perhaps precipitated his death. He didn’t live to read the book, but he was very enthusiastic, as you remember, about the first book, and his widow liked Stained Glass. In any event, I’ve always felt that the extensive development of one character gives the book a kind of beef that it doesn’t otherwise have.
-- William F. Buckley Jr. at The Paris Review
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I have never succeeded in pre-structuring a book. I’ve never started a novel knowing what the end is going to be. When I get about halfway through—and I go into this only because I assume it’s of some technical interest to other writers—I then need to stop and force myself to figure out how the Gordian knot is going to be severed, because at this point there are a lot of characters and dramatic questions that need to be consummated.
[...]
my rule is to devote a very long chapter, close to the beginning, to the development of a single character. In book one it’s Blackford Oakes, which is natural. In book two, Stained Glass, it was Erika, a Soviet agent. I lifted her as though Vladimir Nabokov had a daughter, not his son, Dimitri. I confided my invention to Nabokov, which perhaps precipitated his death. He didn’t live to read the book, but he was very enthusiastic, as you remember, about the first book, and his widow liked Stained Glass. In any event, I’ve always felt that the extensive development of one character gives the book a kind of beef that it doesn’t otherwise have.
-- William F. Buckley Jr. at The Paris Review
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Cats and Cable Guys
Oct. 14th, 2014 05:42 pmAn AT&T guy is working in the back yard. It is taking a while. We enjoyed a good number of months without having to deal with any phone or cable guys, so that the cats had doubtlessly come to feel a deep security in the back yard. But I guess it is a good lesson that one should never feel perfectly secure, though cats seem to already have that lesson imprinted deeply in their genes.
Quotations
Oct. 14th, 2014 06:59 pmConsidering my mania for capturing quotations, I can regret that I did not start years ago. I know the idea was in my head when I was still in my twenties, but I always let the notion pass. Perhaps I thought that my life had to be meant for grander projects, such as writing my own words for immortality, and now that I am on my last legs, with my forties almost exhausted, with nothing to accomplish for my own name and wealth, I can cling thankfully to the purely sentimental exercise of pinning down the words of others that strike a fond chord in my lonely heart.