Books

I have been very self-indulgent with books lately. Effectively, I devour them, hampered only by my own frustrating inability to read quite fast enough. Inevitably, all this reading leads to thinking about writing. You can’t really separate the two, not even if you try very hard.

There is little to show for all that contemplation other than this: I realised that good writing always make you feel something, anything but nothing. There seems to be nothing worse than indifference. Writing or reading should be emotional.

And in order to write something that makes people feel, you have to be feeling something (preferably strongly) when you are writing it. That is perfectly logical, but kind of difficult to put into practice.

Of course, there are books that are meant to make you think instead of feel. However, once having finished the book, what is left is usually only a lingering sense of what it is about. There will be favourite lines, details, scenes, there always are. Yet the aftermath is largely an intangible something.

But that’s just me.

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