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I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper. They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge,spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highland. I never heard of anyone making an outline, as we were taught at school. In the breaking and remaking,in the timing, interweaving,beginning again, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination. A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it. Sometimes the passion within a writer outlives a book he has written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, | 
