All the roil about the State of the Novel has
passed me by. In the evening while the portable dishwasher
rattles out its smell of burning motor oil, I sit
down at my desk and begin to write. I write
not without puzzlements and travail; but naturally like a bird.
I am devoted to accuracy, psychological realism, and earnest truthfulness;
also to virtue, and even to wit. I am not
troubled by what has happened to the novel: all those
declarations about the end of character and story. I am
serene. Sometimes it seems I might be a literary genius.
Paraphrases from the story “Levitation” by Cynthia Ozick.