My wife relates to me the plot of a novel she’s reading in which the protagonist is incapable of experiencing pleasure — from which fact I gather that’s it’s an autobiographical work. The inability to experience pleasure is a necessary condition for the composition of a novel.
One doesn’t enter adulthood merely by reaching the legally defined age of majority — nor, alternatively, by participating in a rite of passage such as the bar mitzvah. Rather, adulthood is that state one attains upon recognizing that his talent — and, in particular, the temptation to profit from it — is his greatest burden.
It represents a case either of hubris or carelessness any time one of us employs the future tense — rather than one of the subjunctive forms of the verb instead, that is. The indicative mood is the province of the past and present, exclusively — and, from what I can gather, barely even the latter of those two.
Among the Hugs
It requires a certain interior strength to begin reading a novel and then, finding that it’s poor, to excuse oneself from completing it. With practice, however, it can be done.
For example: after considerable training, I’ve developed the ability to not even start reading in the first place. Each day, I specifically not read hundreds of books. Perhaps even thousands. Indeed, thousands is probably closer to the truth.
To most effectively induce vomiting, one needn’t trigger his gag reflex nor quickly administer an emetic. Rather, one needs merely to meditate on the idea of cohesion in non-fiction prose — either in one’s own work or another’s.
The End of History. After the End of Art. There exists a compulsion among modern intellectuals to pronounce the death of otherwise seemingly interminable concepts. Or there appears to exist such a compulsion, perhaps is the correct way to phrase it. In fact, reason dictates that such titles represent a calculated means by which to prevent the end of something else — namely, of book sales.