say I’m a prolific writer albeit an insolent scribbler. Indeed
there are over eighty titles in my name. But my books aren’t
books at all. They are titles of books which may never be written.
What’s more, I press no keys; the old typewriter has no use for
me either. But
this doesn’t make me a luddite or a meccanoclast. Simply,
I’ve remained loyal to what I deem essential and that is ink,
nib, pen and inkwell. I
don’t know how to write. Writing hasn’t captivated me yet. I’m
a devout follower of the oral tradition. I don’t write. I chat
with paper. The
scratching of the nib is a steady syncopated murmur. The
black stroke on paper is mine, only mine. It isn’t an abstract
or impersonal style of conversation. It
is the mark of a unique and unwavering individual, one who comes
round once and leaves his indelible mark.