Like most novelists, I like to regard my books as works of craftsmanship for sale, objects as well-made as I can make them. The deeper issues — aesthetic or social or metaphysical — are not my concern; they are strictly for the commentators. A carpenter makes a chair for both use and ornament; the professional novelist hopes that his offering will provide refreshment for the mind and at the same time raise the mind closer to the eternal values of truth and beauty (which, as Keats reminds us, can be regarded as the same thing — different views of reality). The problem of every professional craftsman is the reconciliation of these humble aims with the pressure of time. Only the amateur — carpenter or novelist — has all the time in the world; the professional sometimes has to hurry. If he is commissioned to write a book, that book must be delivered (just as a set of chairs must be delivered) by an agreed date. He must say: 'Tomorrow I go out of circulation for a while; I must start a new novel.' This, and his habit of gathering material in the hope that it may be useful for a novel, makes him seem cold-blooded to those who have a more romantic view of art — the Muse descending only when she decides to, the long wait — in an exophthalmic trance — for inspiration. Novels are created by men and women who put bottom to chair and pen to paper.
'On The Margin' [The Novel Now, 1967]
Use the link below to visit the website of THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHONY BURGESS FOUNDATION, an English-based organisation which 'encourages and supports public and scholarly interest in all aspects of the life and work of Anthony Burgess.' It also operates an archive/performance space in his home town of Manchester.
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