"The process of writing, or this kind of process of writing, anyway, that I’m considering here, includes something outside oneself. It is something outside myself that comes to take hold of me and in a sense use me as an instrument to come into being; I am instrumental. I am not making something up myself, out of myself. Something outside me is being given or offered to me, by chance. I then concentrate on it, give it shape, and in the process open myself to developments in the material that seem to come of their own volition. This openness to involuntary developments is what is most endangered by a knock on my study door at the wrong time, though strangely less endangered by the ongoing hubbub that may surround me on a crowded train or in a bar or café, because no one knows me there and even a momentary intrusion is likely to be impersonal and undisturbing. ('Can you please move your coat?')..."