… love is a continual interrogation. I don’t know of a better definition of love.
- The Book Of Laughter And Forgetting, Milan Kundera
morning boy's letters on serious matters and commentary on funny things aplenty
… love is a continual interrogation. I don’t know of a better definition of love.
These beautiful books we read wouldn’t emerge if the writers kept dreaming of ‘scale’. How boring would readers be if they all read the same books. Imagine!
Is this all a graphomania?! Milan Kundera, internet has amplified the funniness you describe.
Stories aren’t a part of cinema. Cinema is a part of stories. And any medium that becomes a part of great stories, becomes great.
When unpleasant rules of grammar meet good grammatical mistakes of the writer, a style of writing emerges.
Sara Maitland’s accounts in her book Silence, experiencing those kind of things in this lock down. Time for a clean shave. Deck up a bit.
Vandana Shiva mentions ‘auto poeisis’. Would there be books with that as the subject?
Objects can be read like books. Though it may be a much tougher job, that kind of reading. Remembering Henri Petroski’s beautiful accounts.
I shall read Mahabharat all over again! How can I not!
Well past 100 pages, and only now I feel a slight confidence in saying that I may be able to read Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. As they say, wild wild writing. Unfettered growth.
What Mr. William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury achieved! Stream of consciousness, they say. Alright, so be it.
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