I often felt that I’ve been alone all my life, that no one has ever helped me. Then I realized that we tend to pity and victimize ourselves. Actually there were several people who helped me, although these weren’t unbelievably big or crucial helps (I didn’t win the lottery, didn’t enjoy the support of any influential people), but still they were important. Since I was a little child, I remember people who consciously or not, but stood by me in the right moment, encouraged me with two good words or supported me in any other ways. In retrospect, then and there any tiny attention meant a lot, that’s why I remember them with gratitude and I try to pass on these helping energies to the best of my knowledge. I’m sure that even the most helpless person can recall such moments…
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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