It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional. This may have nothing to do with the acts we have committed, or the humors we do go in and out of. It may be only the room — a cube — having no persuasive powers of its own. The room simply is. To occupy it, and find a metaphor there for memory, is our own fault.
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Who does a writer write about? He writes about himself. When I began writing 25 years ago I did not realize this. I wanted to write about subjects that excited my curiosity. But the more I wrote the more I came to realize that I was writing about myself. I do not know what my closest friend is thinking. I do not know anyone else’s mind, but I do know who I am.
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Kaneto Shindo