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Since I never had anyone to encourage me or believe in me, I thought I'd find a supporter for myself. Someone who is by me all the time when I needed it, someone who wants me to reach my aims as much as I do, someone for whom I'm as impotent as for myself, and since I had no other choice, I chose myself. So it's me who is always there next to me (Buddhist approach) and who encourages and strengthens me. I'm the one who pokes me when I shiver from fear of whisper in my ears when I find the task too difficult that 'you can do it, go ahead, things will work out and if you get stuck Providence will send you help, just pay attention to the signs!' I've never regretted my choice. Good news! Everybody has such a good supporter available! /Agatha Seymour/ You are welcome at my website: agathaseymour.com, and my Facebook page!

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When All Seems Lost — and Even When It Doesn’t…

When All Seems Lost — and Even When It Doesn’t… As a writer, I read more than average. Not necessarily books that fall within my immediate interests, but rather those I can learn from, marvel at, analyze word by word, and sometimes even those that demand more effort from me than usual. That is how it is with Alice Munro. I bought my first book by her when she received the Nobel Prize. Then life happened, and the volume sat on my bookshelf—either I had no time for it, or it lingered somewhere at the bottom of my list of priorities. When I finally picked it up, I could hardly believe my eyes—or my reaction. First, I was utterly outraged; my blood pressure shot through the roof in an instant, and I almost started swearing in disbelief. I had barely skimmed the first few lines, yet that was enough to know: it was perfect. A true masterpiece. Excellence among the excellent. Every word reached the deepest layers of my soul. I was touched by its purity, its delicacy, the noblest simpli...
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Evening thought

Now and then journalists in search of copy ask me what is the most thrilling moment of my life. If I were not ashamed to, I might answer that it is the moment when I began to read Goethe’s Faust. I have never quite lost this feeling, and even now the first pages of a book sometimes send the blood racing through my veins. To me reading is a rest as to other people conversation or a game of cards. It is more than that; it is a necessity, and if I am deprived of it for a little while I find myself as irritable as the addict deprived of his drug. I would sooner read a time-table or a catalogue than nothing at all. That is putting it too low. I have spent many delightful hours poring over the price-list of the Army and Navy Stores, the lists of second-hand took-sellers and the A.B.C. All these are redolent of romance. They are much more entertaining than half the novels that are written. /W.S.Maugham/
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