Poor Reading, Like Poor Writing, Is Imposing

If I Turned Towards Books, It Was Because They Were The Only Sanctuary I Knew, One I Needed In Order To Survive, To Protect Some Aspect Of Myself That Was Now In Constant Retreat.

Imagine You Are Walking Down A Leafy Path...the Sun Is Receding, And You Are Walking Alone, Caressed By The Breezy Light Of The Late Afternoon. Then Suddenly, You Feel A Large Drop On Your Right Arm. Is It Raining? You Look Up. The Sky Is Still Deceptively Sunny...seconds Later Another Drop. Then, With The Sun Still Perched In The Sky, You Are Drenched In A Shower Of Rain. This Is How Memories Invade Me, Abruptly And Unexpectedly.

I'm A Perfectly Equipped Failure.

In All Great Works Of Fiction, Regardless Of The Grim Reality They Present, There Is An Affirmation Of Life Against The Transience Of That Life, An Essential Defiance. This Affirmation Lies In The Way The Author Takes Control Of Reality By Retelling It In His Own Way, Thus Creating A New World. Every Great Work Of Art, I Would Declare Pompously, Is A Celebration, An Act Of Insubordination Against The Betrayals, Horrors And Infidelities Of Life. The Perfection And Beauty Of Form Rebels Against The Ugliness And Shabbiness Of The Subject Matter.

The Existence Of The Writer Is To Write, And To Write Is To Tell The Truth.