Alice Gregory
“Whatever I wrote was surrounded by rays of light,” a young Raymond Roussel told his psychoanalyst, Pierre Janet. “I used to close the curtains, for I was afraid that the shining rays emanating from my pen might escape into the outside world through even the smallest chink; I wanted suddenly to throw back the screen and light up the world.” Roussel was speaking literally, and Janet, who would treat Roussel for years, was taking notes. To write fiction is to challenge the most basic of human facts: that we don’t have access to other people’s minds. Authors are more able than most to ignore the audacity of occupying other selves, though—it’s in their job description. And what’s a more obvious challenge than assuming the consciousness of the opposite gender?