 Some extracts: A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying  to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him  who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a  novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself  up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its  shadows, he builds a new world with words.
Some extracts: A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying  to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him  who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a  novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself  up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its  shadows, he builds a new world with words. 
He can write poems,  plays, or novels, as I do. All these differences come after the crucial  task of sitting down at the table and patiently turning inwards. To  write is to turn this inward gaze into words, to study the world into  which that person passes when he retires into himself, and to do so with  patience, obstinacy, and joy. 
As I sit at my table, for days,  months, years, slowly adding new words to the empty page, I feel as if I  am creating a new world, as if I am bringing into being that other  person inside me, in the same way someone might build a bridge or a  dome, stone by stone. 
The stones we writers use are words. As we  hold them in our hands, sensing the ways in which each of them is  connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes  almost caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens,  weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and  hopefully, we create new worlds.
The writer's secret is not  inspiration – for it is never clear where it comes from – it is his  stubbornness, his patience. That lovely Turkish saying – to dig a well  with a needle – seems to me to have been said with writers in mind.
...I  believe literature to be the most valuable hoard that humanity has  gathered in its quest to understand itself. Societies, tribes, and  peoples grow more intelligent, richer, and more advanced as they pay  attention to the troubled words of their authors, and, as we all know,  the burning of books and the denigration of writers are both signals  that dark and improvident times are upon us. 
But literature is  never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room  and first goes on a journey inside himself will, over the years,  discover literature's eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell  his own stories as if they are other people's stories, and to tell other  people's stories as if they were his own, for this is what literature  is. But we must first travel through other peoples' stories and books.
