John Banville, mano lenta, cuenta cómo nació su alter ego, Benjamin Black, pluma alada.

Sería injusto decir que lo mejor de Banville es la frase, todo lo más el párrafo, y que lo mejor de B. Black es el argumento. Quizá no lo sería tanto decir que lo que a Black le parece aceptable es como el grado cero de la elaboración a la que somete la matière Banville. Lo cierto es que los recuerdos del parto de Black más parecen de Banville, mano lenta, que de Black, pluma alada.

Guardian:

This event took place on a day in early March of 2005. Someone once asked Iris Murdoch why she wrote so many novels and she replied ruefully that she believed each new one would exonerate her for the ones that had gone before. In the same spirit, I have never dared finish a novel without having a fresh one already on the go. I had completed The Sea in September 2004, and had been at work since the previous July on what would become The Infinities, and now, in the juvescence of the year, to quote Eliot's happily neologistic formula, came the tiger of inspiration, and suddenly I found myself veering off in a wholly unanticipated direction…