All human beings have a sickness in their minds. That space is a part of them. We have a sane part of our minds and an insane part. We negotiate between those two parts; that is my belief. I can see the insane part of my mind especially well when I’m writing—insane is not the right word. Unordinary, unreal. I have to go back to the real world, of course, and pick up the sane part. But if I didn’t have the insane part, the sick part, I wouldn’t be here.
from The Art of Fiction No.182 (The Paris Review)
It’s wonderful to stumble on a writer’s thoughts, which explain feelings I share but struggle pinning down in words like this. I wonder who else can relate to this?