During the years when I was an undergraduate at Berkeley I tried, with a kind of hopeless late-adolescent energy, to buy some temporary visa into the world of ideas, to forge for myself a mind that could deal with the abstract. I am not in the least an intellectual, which is not to say that when I hear the word “intellectual” I reach for my gun, but only to say that I do not think in abstracts. I may have other interests: I am “interested,” for example, in marine biology, but I don’t flatter myself that you would come out to hear me talk about it. I can bring you no reports from any other front. Like many writers I have only this one “subject,” this one “area”: the act of writing. I stole the title not only because the words sounded right but because they seemed to sum up, in a no-nonsense way, all I have to tell you.
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