Everyone does seem very pessimistic about the future of writing and art in general. But hasn't it always been a fight? I remember how very bitter mos… - Wide Sargasso Sea

It was a beautiful place - wild, untouched, above all untouched, with an alien, disturbing, secret loveliness. And it kept its secret. I'd find myself thinking, 'What I see is nothing - I want what it hides - that is not nothing'.

She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion. ("The Insect World")

I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.