Thursday, December 13, 2012



I am, of course, joking. After my recent experience, it will be a long day in hell before I wish for a living, breathing cat. In fact, I have long held the view that if a writer wants to have a pet, it should be stuffed because real live pets are distracting. Much the same applies to babies—which should be kept in the washing machine (I write on the basis of some experience—I am the eldest of 12 and the father of 5). As for wives (or husbands), I’m not sure we should have them. Writers—of either sex—are notoriously difficult to live with; and all of us are polygamists at heart.

Lovers? But, of course. Writers need sex—for relief and research purposes—and there is nothing more romantic than love without commitment (unless it is love with commitment).

It’s tough being a writer. On the one hand we exist to illuminate the human condition; but on the other hand humans are grossly distracting in a work environment where focus is all.

As you may gather, I’m going mildly stir crazy. It has been a week, and I’m not yet over my bug, though both my appetite and energy seem to be returning, which is a decided relief. A warm bed, a good book and lots of sleep are working yet again—and without medication. Yet, I have a great deal of work to do and would like to get at it. What to do? I shall ask Voltaire. He has views on most things.

No problem can withstand the assault of sustained thinking."
French writer, historian and philosopher

Doubtless very true—but not much help. Also, one of the side effects of being sick is that you don’t think as clearly as when you are well; and I’m still running a temperature.

Back to bed, and a book, and sleep.




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