I'm planning, you see, to try to confine myself to the truth. That's hard for an old, inveterate fantasy martyr and liar who has never hesitated to give truth the form he felt the occasion demanded.
My pictures are always part of my thinking, and my emotions, tensions, dreams, desires.
The doors between the old man today and the child are still open, wide open. I can stroll through my grandmother's house and know exactly where the pictures are, the furniture was, how it looked, the voice, the smells. I can move from my bed at night today to my childhood in less than a second.
I throw a spear into the darkness. That is intuition. Then I must send an army into the darkness to find the spear. That is intellect.
I am extremely suspicious of dreams, apparitions and visions, both in literature and in films and plays. Perhaps it's because mental excesses of this sort smack too much of being 'arranged.'
In 'The Serpent's Egg,' I created a Berlin which no one recognized, not even I.
