At a certain point my novels set. They set just as hard as that jam jar. And then I know they are finished.
Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment. To such an extent indeed that one day, finding myself at the deathbed of a woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself in the act of focusing on her temples and automatically analyzing the succession of appropriately graded colors which death was imposing on her motionless face.
God told me if I painted that mountain enough, I could have it.
There's no writers room, or any other writer involved. I write everything from beginning to end. Maybe it's just me not being able to let go of something, especially with 'Peaky.'
Sometime in 1964 I realized that I was a victim of a printmaking obsession, a condition that persists today.
I can't live with art: I'd spend too much time tweaking it.
A mortal had woven it, a man who, having caught sight of the Seelie queen, had spent the remainder of his short life weaving depictions of her. He had died of starvation, raw, red fingers staining the final tapestry.
I find myself every so often looking at my ground glass as though the unrecorded image might escape me!
