그의 눈, 어른의 눈 같은 독특한 눈은 얼마나 기이하...

그의 눈, 어른의 눈 같은 독특한 눈은 얼마나 기이하게 빛을 발했던가! 그러자 이런 생각이 어렴풋이 뇌리를 스쳤다. 그 자신, 데미안 자신이 그런 카인의 부류가 아닐까? 스스로 카인과 비슷하다고 느끼지 않는다면 무엇 때문에 카인을 옹호하겠어?

데미안 | 헤르만 헤세, 김인순 저

리디북스에서 자세히 보기: https://ridibooks.com/books/1242000796 - P65

그러다 갑자기 나도 이런 걸 써서, 공부를 하면서 동...

그러다 갑자기 나도 이런 걸 써서, 공부를 하면서 동시에 돈을 벌 수도 있겠다 싶은 생각이 들었습니다. 첫 단편을 쓰는 데는 오 개월이 걸렸는데, 다른 작가들이 끝끝내 시도하기를 거부했던 방식을 썼죠. 어떤 이야기를 분석해 줄거리에 대해 아주 세세하게 시놉시스를 쓴 다음 그걸 소설로 옮겼습니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P89

바닥부터 시작해야 한다는 개념이 없지요. 과거에 이룬 성과가 무엇이든, 작가는 지금 현재 하려고 하는 일 앞에서 다시 아이가 됩니다. 아무리 상투적인 기교를 많이 익혔다 한들, 작가에게 지금 도움이 되는 것은 열정과 겸손함뿐입니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P89

나는 문학에 쓸 만한 속어가 딱 두 가지라는 걸 깨달...

나는 문학에 쓸 만한 속어가 딱 두 가지라는 걸 깨달았죠. 언어 속에서 스스로 자리 잡은 속어와 작가가 만들어 낸 속어. 나머지는 인쇄되기도 전에 사라져 버립니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P63

작품은 아주 자유롭게, 거의 무심한 태도로, 그리고 자의식 없이 생산되는 겁니다. 그저 책을 많이 읽는다고 해서 글을 쓸 수 있는 것은 아닙니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P70

어떤 작가도 무언가를 ‘쓰고’ 싶어 하지 않아요. 어떤 효과를 재연하거나 표현하길 원하지요. 다만 시작할 때 어떻게 해야 하는지 전혀 감을 잡지 못할 뿐입니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P74

재능이 충분하다면 본질이 없이도 어느 정도 그럭저럭 해나갈 수도 있겠지요. 그리고 본질이 알차다면 재능이 없어도 어느 정도 그럭저럭 해나갈 수 있을 것이고. 하지만 그 둘 다 없이는 해 나갈 수가 없는 겁니다. 이 ‘아직 아닌 작가’들은 아주 비극적인 인물들이죠. 지적일수록 더욱 비극적이에요. 그들은 자신이 나아가지 못한 게 아주 작은 한 걸음이라고 생각하는데, 실제로도 그렇기 때문입니다. 그리고 모든 성공한, 혹은 크게 성공한 작가는, 자신이 나아갈 수 있었던 한 걸음이 얼마나 작은 차이였는지 알고 있고, 알아야만 합니다. 하지만 할 수 없는 건 할 수 없는 거죠. 그뿐입니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P77

나에게 플롯은 만드는 게 아닙니다. 자라나는 거지요. 플롯이 자라나길 거부하면 그 작품은 버리고 다시 시작합니다.

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P80

"나는 아내가 조금씩 죽어 가는 모습을 지켜봤고, 그 사실을 안다는 고뇌 속에서 내 최고의 책을 써야 했으며, 그럼에도 써 냈습니다. 어떻게 그럴 수 있었는지 모르겠어요. 나는 서재에 들어가 눈을 감고는 생각을 모아 스스로를 다른 세계로 이끌었지요. 그러는 데 적어도 한 시간은 걸렸습니다. 그런 다음에야 작업을 시작했습니다." (1957.2.11.)

-알라딘 eBook <나는 어떻게 글을 쓰게 되었나> (레이먼드 챈들러 지음, 안현주 옮김) 중에서 - P84

But after thinking a minute s...

But after thinking a minute she said, "No, I cain‘t leave the gulls,
the heron, the shack. The marsh is all the family I got."
Sitting in the last of the candlelight, she had an idea.
Earlier than usual, she got up the next morning when the tide waslow, pulled on her overalls, and slipped out with a bucket, claw knife,
and empty tow bags. Squatting in mud, she collected mussels along thesloughs like Ma had taught her, and in four hours of crouching andkneeling had two croker sacks full. - P75

Buying her own gas and groceries surely made her a grown-up.
Later, at the shack when she unpacked the tiny pile of supplies, she sawa yellow-and-red surprise at the bottom of the bag. Not too grown-upfor a Sugar Daddy Jumpin‘ had dropped inside. - P76

To stay ahead of the other pickers, Kya slipped down to the marsh bycandle or moon-her shadow wavering around on the glistening sand-and gathered mussels deep in the night. She added oysters to her catchand sometimes slept near gullies under the stars to get to Jumpin‘s byfirst light. The mussel money turned out to be more reliable than theMonday money ever had, and she usually managed to beat out otherpickers. - P76

Mostly she looked for the fishing boy. A few times over the years, she‘d seen him in the distance, but hadn‘t spoken to him since she was seven, three years ago when he showed her the way home through the marsh. He was the only soul she knew in the world besides Jumpin‘ and a few salesladies. Wherever she glided through the waterways, she scanned for him. - P78

But she only stared, didn‘t move. She felt a strong pull toward himand a strong push away, the result being stuck firmly in this spot. Fi-nally, she eased toward home, her heart pushing against her ribs.
Every time she saw him it was the same: watching him as she didthe herons. - P79

In the center of the clearing was a rotted-down stump, so carpetedin moss it looked like an old man hiding under a cape. Kya approachedit, then stopped. Lodged in the stump and sticking straight up was athin black feather about five or six inches long. To most it would havelooked ordinary, maybe a crow‘s wing feather. But she knew it was ex-traordinary for it was the "eyebrow" of a great blue heron, the featherthat bows gracefully above the eye, extending back beyond her eleganthead. One of the most exquisite fragments of the coastal marsh, right here. She had never found one but knew instantly what it was, havingsquatted eye to eye with herons all her life. - P88

Yet as soon as dawn crept between the trees, she felt a strong pulltoward the feather, at least to look at it again. At sunrise she ran to theclearing, looked around carefully, then walked to the stump and liftedthe feather. It was sleek, almost velvety. Back at the shack, she founda special place for it in the center of her collection—from tiny hum-mingbird feathers to large eagle tails—that winged across the wall. Shewondered why a boy would bring her a feather. - P88

Every smack a stab in the turkey hen‘s heart.
Against the wall, Kya wanted to whimper but held her breath. Theycould break through the door easy. One hard yank, and they‘d be in.
But they backed down the steps, ran into the trees again, hootingand hollering with relief that they had survived the Marsh Girl, theWolf Child, the girl who couldn‘t spell dog. Their words and laughtercarried back to her through the forest as they disappeared into thenight, back to safety. She watched the relit candles, bobbing throughthe trees. Then sat staring into the stone-quiet darkness. Shamed.
Kya thought of that day and night whenever she saw wild turkeys,
but she was thrilled to see the tail feather on the stump. Just to knowthe game was still on. - P91

And yet here was an extra spark plug, to be set aside until needed. Asurplus. Her heart filled up. The same feeling as having a full tank ofgas or seeing the sunset under a paint-brushed sky. She stood abso-lutely still, trying to take it in, what it meant. She had watched malebirds wooing females by bringing them gifts. But she was pretty youngfor nestingAt the bottom of the carton was a note. She unfolded it and lookedat the words, written carefully in simple script that a child could read.
Kya knew the time of the tides in her heart, could find her way home bythe stars, knew every feather of an eagle, but even at fourteen, couldn‘tread these words. - P97

Tate couldn‘t help staring. She must be thirteen or fourteen, hethought. But even at that age, she had the most striking face he‘d everseen. Her large eyes nearly black, her nose slender over shapely lips,
painted her in an exotic light. She was tall, thin, giving her a fragile, lithesome look as though molded wild by the wind. Yet young, strap-ping muscles showed through with quiet power. - P98

Her impulse, as always, was to run. But there was another sensa-tion. A fullness she hadn‘t felt for years. As if something warm hadbeen poured inside her heart. She thought of the feathers, the sparkplug, and the seeds. All of it might end if she ran. Without speaking, she lifted her hand and held the elegant swan feather toward him.
Slowly, as though she might spring like a startled fawn, he walked overand studied it in her hand. She watched in silence, looking only at thefeather, not his face, nowhere near his eyes. - P98

˝Hi.˝ Kya heard a tiny voice ...

"Hi." Kya heard a tiny voice behind her and turned to see a girl ofabout four years with blond ringlets looking up at her. She was dressed in a pale blue frock and reached out her hand. Kya stared at the little hand; it was puffy-soft and maybe the cleanest thing Kya had everseen. Never scrubbed with lye soap, certainly no mussel mud beneaththe nails. Then she looked into the girl‘s eyes, in which she herself was reflected as just another kid. - P65

Sycamore and hickories stretched naked limbs against a dull sky, and the relentless wind sucked any joy the winter sun might havespread across the bleakness. A useless, drying wind in a sea-land thatcouldn‘t dry. - P73