I always have a book with me. There is always a volume of short stories from my favorite writer in the glove compartment of my car. If I go to a place where I have to line, I immediately put it into my bag and kill the time with reading. If I think it through I have read several dozens of books on the subway, on the bus, on the train or on a plane etc. I warmly recommend this method to those who like reading, but chose carefully regarding the size, as it might be uncomfortable to carry around a heavy book all day…
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...
Comments
Post a Comment
Your voice matters! Leave a comment and join the conversation!