I’m often impatient. Despite the fact that I know that everything has its own time. I know it for sure that certain people and certain situations find me when I’m ready for them, when I can handle what they might provide for me. Nothing can be urged, not even with a word, nor with a thought. Although I often urge things, I must calm myself down, knowing that everybody and everything is doing what they have to, until we can meet. Everybody else, just like me, must grow up for the meeting. Everything is in perfect order in the world.
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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