Writing itself would seem to be… marginal to a vast, empty, unarticulated center called reality that was displaced more and more by it.
“There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth — yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald | This Side of Paradise