“I began to realise how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared to with the life of a businessman. The writer had to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn’t go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction, he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally difference people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surrounding is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a food to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.”—Roald Dahl - Boy (via image-rose)
Ce n’est pas vraiment un des contes que je préfère, mais l’un des passages m’a beaucoup marqué. Je trouve cette histoire horrible. Enlever un enfant à sa mère, ça me déchire le coeur.
Et ce Prince… un connard.