Haven’t been feeling well. Or writing well. Every book read recently ends with a sad realistic fatalism which although tragic and beautiful does not do much to encourage. Forgot what I was about and missed more days and then decided to drop it all together.
Started a new book today called The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. Came across this passage:
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath.Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice,that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
And I thought to myself, well, at least I ought to share the passage.
Take tomorrow as it comes.