Why write? What’s it for? I mean, writing. A stack of cream cartridge, another Word screen, those miles of exacting centimetres. I know all the answers, I’ve been there before. Learned essays could be written. But why write? Is it ambition, desire, expression, ennui? What does it achieve, disappearing back into time, a name and some words? So many words, so much unread. Waste of excellence, neglect of culture. Pages wait but who reads? Take the cream and leave the rest. If I wrote triple-decker novels set in August, a poem that captured Everything, would I still ask, why write?