He hugged tighter, self against self, jolted again by the shock of his own nature, the reflex that would always kick him into writing the very things he would like to leave lie, into staring where he shouldn't even look, because that was where the life was. There was never a genuine choice involved, never the chance to skim out the hurt and leave the joy, to edit his commitment--there was only his mindless, nerveless appetite, the knife-point compulsion to make all of everything speak, no matter what--to always try for that. If it would make for a better sentence, he knew, he'd consent to anything.
--A.L. Kennedy, Everything You Need