Without Stories We Would Go Mad. Life

We Disliked The Rigours Of Existence, The Unfulfilled Longings, The Enshrined Injustices Of The World, The Labyrinths Of Love, The Ignorance Of Parents, The Fact Of Dying, And The Amazing Indifference Of The Living In The Midst Of The Simple Beauties Of The Universe. We Feared The Heartlessness Of Human Beings, All Of Whom Are Born Blind, Few Of Whom Ever Learn To See.

A Man Must Be Able To Hold His Drink Because Drunkenness Is Sometimes Necessary In This Difficult Life.

Yes, The Highest Things Are Beyond Words. That Is Probably Why All Art Aspires To The Condition Of Wordlessness. When Literature Works On You, It Does So In Silence, In Your Dreams, In Your Wordless Moments. Good Words Enter You And Become Moods, Become The Quiet Fabric Of Your Being. Like Music, Like Painting, Literature Too Wants To Transcend Its Primary Condition And Become Something Higher. Art Wants To Move Into Silence, Into The Emotional And Spiritual Conditions Of The World. Statues Become Melodies, Melodies Become Yearnings, Yearnings Become Actions.

Bad Things Will Happen And Good Things Too. Your Life Will Be Full Of Surprises. Miracles Happen Only Where There Has Been Suffering. So Taste Your Grief To The Fullest. Don’t Try And Press It Down. Don’t Hide From It. Don’t Escape. It Is Life Too. It Is Truth. But It Will Pass And Time Will Put A Strange Honey In The Bitterness. That’s The Way Life Goes.

Reading, Therefore, Is A Co-production Between Writer And Reader. The Simplicity Of This Tool Is Astounding. So Little, Yet Out Of It Whole Worlds, Eras, Characters, Continents, People Never Encountered Before, People You Wouldn’t Care To Sit Next To In A Train, People That Don’t Exist, Places You’ve Never Visited, Enigmatic Fates, All Come To Life In The Mind, Painted Into Existence By The Reader’s Creative Powers. In This Way The Creativity Of The Writer Calls Up The Creativity Of The Reader. Reading Is Never Passive.