‘To write and write, like a wheel or machine’

At work in this hermitage (formerly Aladdin’s cave) as the wider world closes down: No lightening in a bottle. No convulsion. No brow-mopping. Without provocation. Without resolutions. Luster-free. No black ants. No brown moths. No biting irony. Acid-free conversation. What’s an author (who already has Oblomov-omatic tendencies) to do? “To write at night,” thought Oblomov;(…)