: una carta
De Don DeLillo para David Foster Wallace escrita en octubre de 2006 y que apareció en el New Yorker de este mes. Fragmento.
"I was semiconscious writer in the begining. Just sat and wrote something, or read the newspaper, or went to the movies. Over the time I began to understand, one, that I was lucky to be doing this work, and, two, that the only way I’d get better at it was to be more serious, to understand the rigors of novel-writing and to make it central to my life, not a variation on some related carrer choice, like sportswriting or play-writing. The novel is different… We die indoors, and alone, and I don’t mean to sound overdramatic but you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, all of this happened over time, until eventually discipline no longer seemed something outside me that urged the reluctant body into the room. At this point discipline is inseparable from what I do. It’s not even definable as discipline. It has no name. I never think about it. I got older, that’s all. I was not a born novelist (if anyone is). I had grow into novelhood."