vendredi 9 juillet 2010

James Baldwin, ANOTHER COUNTRY, Vintage, New York, 1993 [1960]

And he felt that if he were a real writer, he would simply go home and work and throw everything else out of his mind, as Balzac had done and Proust and Joyce and Faulkner. But perhaps they had never held in their minds the nameless things he held in his. He felt a very peculiar, a deadly resignation: he knew that he would not go home until it was too late for him to go anywhere else, or until Ida answered the phone.
(p. 300)

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