On November 18 of alternate years Mr Earbrass begins writing 'his new novel'. Weeks ago he chose its title at random from a list of them he keeps in a little green note-book. It being tea-time of the 17th, he is alarmed not to have thought of a plot to which The Unstrung Harp might apply.
Edward GoreyI really think I write about everyday life. I don't think I'm quite as odd as others say I am. Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring.
Edward GoreyNot everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.
Edward GoreyMr. Earbrass has rashly been skimming through the early chapters, which he had not looked at for months, and now sees TUH for what it is. Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL. He must be mad to go on enduring the unexquisite agony of writing when it all turns out drivel. Mad. Why did n't he become a spy? How does one become one? He will burn the MS. Why is there no fire? Why are n't there the makings of one? How did he get in the unused room on the third floor?
Edward GoreyTag: writing-process
I don't know what it is I'm doing. But it's not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.
Edward GoreyAll the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.... You can describe all the externals of a performance - everything, in fact, but what really constitutes its core. Explaining something makes it go away, so to speak; what's important is what's left over after you've explained everything else.
Edward GoreyZ is for Zillah who drank too much gin.
Edward GoreyTag: inspirational humour macabre
Books. Cats. Life is Good.
Edward GoreyMy favorite journey is looking out the window.
Edward GoreyI don't think anything might have been. What is, is.
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