lundi 17 janvier 2011

Eric Bogosian, PERFORATED HEART, New York, Simon & Schuster, 2009, 271 pages.

These assholes cutting into me, each taking their little pieces of flesh. Bleeding me. Wearing me down. Trying to smother me. Next time I see Leon I will tell him he can't have my next book. That's all. No one can. I will write it for myself. I don't need this crap in my life.
All the same, the books are my progeny. And my children must be read in order to live. Someone out there needs them wants them. If I don't fight for them, who will? I need to promote them even if I have to act like a whore. Otherwise my children will die. And if they die, I die.
Ohers can have their biological children, nagging spouses and spiteful parents. I don't need any of that. I need to define my relationship to the world and I can only do that through words. Even if no one understands me today, they will someday. I am certain of this.
This is the invisible war, the war each author has to fight on his own behalf. They all did it - Hemingway, Capote, Faulkner, Carver, Roth - all. Otherwise the writing is forgotten. A writer's job is to promote himself. And to do that we must take the abuse. Fellini said "I drop my pants and everyone either laughs or applauds." Perhaps my battle is futile, beacuse I'm no Hemingway, Capote, Faulkner, Carver or Roth. I'm nothing. Maybe my books deserve to die and I will die with them.
(p. 142)

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