We tried to reach an agreement with the writer: I won’t be too stubborn, but he’ll write whatever I think, whatever I want. He promised me. I wanted the story to take place by a lake. In the distance, a purple mountain with white stripes on it—that is, snowy places too. A small, charming mountain. I’ve opened up my sun lounger, stretched out, and I’m watching what’s around me. The surface of the lake, perfectly smooth. The reflections of the trees on the water look as real as the trees...
Let me tell you something. The fellow whose name is on the cover of the book you’re holding is writing this story, but he doesn’t quite know what’s going to happen. I’m always half a step ahead of him.
After a while he finds a certain voice, wants to take his characters somewhere—anywhere, really; perhaps to a battlefield in Ancient Rome, or to a picnic with his lover on the banks of the Meuse on April 17, 1967. And then the character’s voice gets in the way of his writing whatever he pleases....