It might sound strange, but even if I’m affected only by small pains or offences, I always take my feeling aroused by these events seriously. To be precise, I take it seriously not to provoke myself too far into being hurt and angry because these feeling only take me to the wrong direction, we easily identify with them and we produce failure from these situations and sink into bitterness. My favorite writer’s thoughts come to my mind as a deterrent example, which he gathered during his years spent in hospital: “I knew that suffering doesn’t improve me: it degrades me. It makes people selfish, narrow-minded, mean and suspicious. It digests them little by little. Instead of being superior creatures, it makes them inferior; and I wrote it down angrily that we don’t learn resignation from our own suffering but from the suffering of others.”
/Agatha Seymour/
You are welcome at my website: agathaseymour.com
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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