That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.
Interpretation
Writing often emerges from personal struggles and deep emotional pain.
Edna O'Brien emphasizes that the process of writing is deeply intertwined with human suffering and emotional turmoil. It suggests that profound experiences, especially those that are painful or challenging, can lead to the creation of art, as writers channel their afflictions into their work, revealing the intricate relationship between personal hardship and creativity.
In practice
In a speech about the importance of art, one might reference this quote to highlight how personal struggles can inspire great creativity.
Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.
Cities, in many ways, are the best repositories for a love affair. You are in a forest or a cornfield, you are walking by the seashore, footprint after footprint of trodden sand, and somehow the kiss or the spoken covenant gets lost in the vastness and indifference of nature. In a city there are places to remind us of what has been.
Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.
Oh, love, what an unreasoning creature it grew to be.
Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.
It was the first time that I came face to face with madness and feared it and was fascinated by it.
I'd love to just think of myself as a filmmaker, and I wait for the day when the modifier can be a moot point.
Rhythm is sound in motion. It is related to the pulse, the heartbeat, the way we breathe. It rises and falls. It takes us into ourselves; it takes us out of ourselves.
It's work to play the same songs the same way for 70 shows.
There's blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.
I don't torture myself. And I do the work because of the pleasure involved. I'm satisfying a compulsion I find nigh-on irresistible. It's not necessarily because of the work itself. I just feel the need for a period of regeneration afterwards. Like leaving a field fallow when you've grazed too much on it. I feel depleted.
Each writer is born with a repertory company in his head. Shakespeare has perhaps 20 players. ... I have 10 or so, and thats a lot. As you get older, you become more skillful at casting them.
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