Whereas writing, you know, you’re alone, fucking nailing yourself to the cross on that lonely white page with every word. Trekking your lonely footsteps across that virgin white snow, that endless tundra.
I can try to tell the facts, but I still end up with fictions. (I believe history is a many-layered fiction.) I can’t include all the pertinent details, and without them, I can only tell a partial truth. But does it matter? Yes, I think it matters. I wish I could do more justice to the world.
Faulkner’s ghost likes to write on walls and scurrilously wander the grounds, to scare off all the Ole Miss students making out in the woods behind his house (ghosts are always grumpy).