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Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before not…

Here, when I’m alone, I don’t play the piano. I play fairly well, but I don’t play much because I don’t think I can play when I’m alone, when there’s no one but me in the house. It’s hard to endure. Because it seems to make sense all of a sudden. But only writing makes sense in certain personal cas…