As a young child I wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle.
As a child, the allure of becoming a writer captivated me, driven by the perception that writers lived glamorous lives filled with wealth and fame. I imagined them residing in exotic locations like Singapore and Rangoon, indulging in opium while adorned in luxurious silk suits. The image painted a lifestyle of decadence and adventure, engaging in activities that felt thrillingly forbidden.
This romanticized view extended to scenes in Mayfair and Tangier, where writers were depicted as daring figures partaking in substances like cocaine and hashish, exploring uncharted territories, and forming deep connections with the local culture. The fantasy of a writer's life was not just about creation but also about living a life rich with experiences and the company of unique companions, contributing to an enticing vision of artistic existence.