The Art, The Tragedy, The Art of Tragedy, The Tragedy of Art
Author suffers an attack of pure belletristics in real time
The Great Imperative devours the day! To write or not to write, a question daft and unbefitting, for an author to ask himself strange, even vulgar. If you wish to write—write, if you don't—don't, but if the writing yearns to break free—who are you to keep it caged? An author's a freexpressionist, the urge artistic gushes in him ceaselessly, like an avalanche rumbles, blazes like Prometheus's eternal flame. It's cramped inside the author, and there's but one desire—to unleash a thought, an idea, an emotion, an experience into the world, in other words, to release Self into the world, and let the world into Self, to chew each other up, spit out and die, leaving his creation to be passed from hand to hand, in a successful scenario, of course, when the reader snatches this creative substrate, takes it and rubs it into her brain like an ointment. A dialogue between two minds, in which only one participates at a time. Asynchronous telepathy, traversing time and space. Ink on paper, pixels on a screen, mush in the head.
Read this post for free on nova-nevedoma.com · Download PDF
