“Every Man Dies Alone.”

Catchy title.

“From the minute I sit down and write the first line,” he once explained, “I am lost, a compelling force is in command. That force dictates just how and how much I must write, whether I want to or not, even if it makes me ill. . . . A hundred times I have wondered what it is that drives me so.” It was as if he had no choice. On another occasion, he compared his need to write to an “intoxication,” like the morphine he once craved. He called it “a poison that I could not shake out of my mind or my body, I was thirsty for it, I wanted to drink more of it, to drink it always, every day for the rest of my life.”

–author Hans Fallada (a pen-name taken from Grimm’s Fairy Tales), a troubled writer from troubled times, on his craft, from this NYTimes article.

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