Grading papers, and trying to finish up one of my own to be given tomorrow, I take a short break and dip into a recent New Yorker. Here I read John Updike’s review of a new biography of Edith Wharton, and find this delectable bit from both authors:

Asked about the role of the unconscious in creating fiction, she sounds somewhat French, somewhat starchy, and quite sensible:

“I do not think I can get any nearer than this to the sources of my story-telling; I can only say that the process, though it takes place in some secret region on the sheer edge of consciousness, is always illuminated by the full light of my critical attention.”

End quote.

Perfect.