system of our own that can resist the dangerous (in some cases lethal) toxin that resides within. Do
this, and we can more efficiently dispose of even stronger toxins. In other words, we can create even
more powerful narratives to deal with these. But you need a great deal of energy to create an immune
system and maintain it over a long period. You have to find that energy somewhere, and where else to
find it but in our own basic physical being?
Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m not arguing that this is the only correct path that writers should
take. Just as there are lots of types of literature, there are many types of writers, each with his own
worldview. What they deal with is different, as are their goals. So there’s no such thing as one right
way for novelists. This goes without saying. But, frankly, if I want to write a large-scale work,
increasing my strength and stamina is a must, and I believe this is something worth doing, or at least that
doing it is much better than not. This is a trite observation, but as they say: If something’s worth doing, it’s
worth giving it your best—or in some cases beyond your best.
To deal with something unhealthy, a person needs to be as healthy as possible. That’s my motto. In
other words, an unhealthy soul requires a healthy body. This might sound paradoxical, but it’s
something I’ve felt very keenly ever since I became a professional writer. The healthy and the
unhealthy are not necessarily at opposite ends of the spectrum. They don’t stand in opposition to each
other, but rather complement each other, and in some cases even band together. Sure, many people
who are on a healthy track in life think only of good health, while those who are getting unhealthy
think only of that. But if you follow this sort of one-sided view, your life won’t be fruitful.
Some writers who in their youth wrote wonderful, beautiful, powerful works find that when they
reach a certain age exhaustion suddenly takes over. The term literary burnout is quite apt here. Their
later works may still be beautiful, and their exhaustion might impart its own special meaning, but it’s
obvious these writers’ creative energy is in decline. This results, I believe, from their physical energy
not being able to overcome the toxin they’re dealing with. The physical vitality that up till now was
naturally able to overcome the toxin has passed its peak, and its effectiveness in their immune systems
is gradually wearing off. When this happens it’s difficult for a writer to remain intuitively creative. The
balance between imaginative power and the physical abilities that sustain it has crumbled. The writer is
left employing the techniques and methods he has cultivated, using a kind of residual heat to mold
something into what looks like a literary work—a restrained method that can’t be a very pleasant
journey. Some writers take their own lives at this point, while others just give up writing and choose
another path.
If possible, I’d like to avoid that kind of literary burnout. My idea of literature is something more
spontaneous, more cohesive, something with a kind of natural, positive vitality. For me, writing a
novel is like climbing a steep mountain, struggling up the face of the cliff, reaching the summit after a
long and arduous ordeal. You overcome your limitations, or you don’t, one or the other. I always keep
that inner image with me as I write.
Needless to say, someday you’re going to lose. Over time the body inevitably deteriorates. Sooner
or later, it’s defeated and disappears. When the body disintegrates, the spirit also (most likely) is gone
too. I’m well aware of that. However, I’d like to postpone, for as long as I possibly can, the point
where my vitality is defeated and surpassed by the toxin. That’s my aim as a novelist. And besides, at
this point I don’t have the leisure to be burned out. Which is exactly why even though people say,