It was never
dismissed from my mind, even when the hope of ever finishing it was very
faint. Many things came in its way: daily duties, new impressions,
old memories. It was not the outcome of a need--the famous need of
self-expression which artists find in their search for motives.
The necessity which impelled me was a hidden, obscure necessity, a
completely masked and unaccountable phenomenon. Or perhaps some idle and
frivolous magician (there must be magicians in London) had cast a spell
over me through his parlour window as I explored the maze of streets
east and west in solitary leisurely walks without chart and compass.
Till I began to write that novel I had written nothing but letters, and
not very many of these. I never made a note of a fact, of an impression,
or of an anecdote in my life. The conception of a planned book was
entirely outside my mental range when I sat down to write; the ambition
of being an author had never turned up among those gracious imaginary
existences one creates fondly for oneself at times in the stillness and
immobility of a day-dream: yet it stands clear as the sun at noonday
that from the moment I had done blackening over the first manuscript
page of "Almayer's Folly" (it contained about two hundred words and this
proportion of words to a page has remained with me through the fifteen
years of my writing life), from the moment I had, in the simplicity of
my heart and the amazing ignorance of my mind, written that page the die
was cast.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117