“I don’t write in the morning, my brain isn’t up to it yet, I don’t write in the afternoon, I’m too sad, I write from five o’clock on, I need to have been awake a long time, my body relaxed from a day’s fatigue.”
In this quote by Edouard Leve, the author reveals his personal writing process and the specific conditions he needs to be able to write effectively. By stating that he doesn't write in the morning because his brain isn't ready and in the afternoon because he feels too sad, Leve highlights the importance of mental and emotional well-being for the creative process. He emphasizes the need to be awake and relaxed, suggesting that a clear mind and a sense of calm are essential for his writing to flow. This quote sheds light on the individual nature of the creative process and the unique rituals and conditions that different writers may require to produce their best work.
Though Edouard Leve's quote may seem specific to his personal writing habits, it speaks to a broader idea of the importance of finding your optimal writing time. In today's fast-paced world, it can be easy to overlook the significance of being in the right mindset and physical state when sitting down to write. Just as Leve found his most productive hours in the evening, it's crucial for writers to identify when they feel most creative, focused, and energized in order to produce their best work.
"I don’t write in the morning, my brain isn’t up to it yet, I don’t write in the afternoon, I’m too sad, I write from five o’clock on, I need to have been awake a long time, my body relaxed from a day’s fatigue." - Edouard Leve
Edouard Leve's unique writing process highlights the importance of finding the right time and state of mind for creative work. Reflecting on this quote, consider the following questions:
“The last time I saw you, you were wearing a white cotton shirt. You were standing upright with your wife on the lawn, in the sunlight, in front of the chateau, at my brother’s wedding. You shared in the enthusiasm of the ceremony. For my part, I felt distanced from it. I didn’t recognize my family in this mundane get-together. You didn’t seem put off by the bourgeois ceremony, or by my brother’s choice to have his love approved by third parties, even when these were distant third parties. You didn’t have the sad and absent look you normally took on at public gatherings. You smiled, watching the people, a little tipsy from the wine and the sun, chatting on the large lawn between the white stone façade and the two-hundred-year-old cedar tree. I often wondered, after your death, if that smile, the last one I saw from you, was mocking, or if instead it was the kindly smile of someone who knew that soon he would no longer partake in earthly pleasures. You didn’t regret leaving these behind, but neither were you averse to enjoying them a little longer.”
“When I am coming back from a trip, the best part isn’t going through the airport or getting home, but the taxi ride in between: you’re still travelling, but not really.”
“Only once can I say “I’m dying” without telling a lie. The best day of my life may already be behind me.”
“When you were awake, stretched out in your bed in the dark, shutters drawn, your thoughts would flow freely. They would grow obscure when you got up and opened the curtains. The violence of daylight would efface the nocturnal clarity. In the daytime, people were barriers, dividing you up, preventing you from hearing what you listened to at night: the voice of your brain.”
“Fifteen years old is the middle of my life, regardless of when I die.”
“You used to give yourself over to endless sessions of doubt. You would claim to be an expert on the subject. But doubting would tire you so much that you would end up doubting doubt itself. I saw you one day at the end of an afternoon of solitary speculation. You were unmoving and petrified. Running several kilometers in a deep forest full of ravines and pitfalls would have exhausted you less.”