Meaning, I suppose, that I’m almost more interested in watching myself, as a writer of fiction (or as a mind that has, as one of its agencies, a fictive impulse), than in the worlds that I sometimes imagine, and introduce on the page, and follow for a while, as they pursue their own meanderings (so that they might reveal, through their drama, whatever preoccupations are hidden in my subconscious), though of course they must be beautiful too, as works of language, in order to be art, or else they become indulgences — vehicles by which to express a point, or an agenda, rather than objects possessed of their own life and integrity.