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.