How would I like to write?
Like an old Greek who calls up the dead and shakes up the living. Or like a snowman passing alone and barefoot. To record the mountain to note the sea with a fine tip, like sketching out a pattern for embroidery. To write like a Russian travelling merchant making his way from here to China. He finds a shack. And sketches it. In the evening he looks, in the night he draws, and he finishes before dawn. Then he pays and goes on his way with the break of day.
[from THE SAME SEA. Harcourt, 1999]