Post by The Observer on Feb 15, 2008 20:32:23 GMT -5
Here I will post occasional thoughts or archived reflections on life. They may be short, they may be long, they may be profound, they may be shallow. You don't have to read them, but I do wish you would reply.
Here is one entry from my collection. It is meant to be read aloud, prefereably in a public place.
I see that, at the moment, I have no audience. Well, I suppose that any logical person, any reasonable and sensible person, would stop talking now. But I don’t think that I will. Oh, I can be a reasonable as the next man, and far more logical than most, but in this case I don’t think logic or reason should apply. You see, the greatest writers in the world wrote their stories in isolation. Do you think Hans Chrisian Anderson made up his stories before a crowd? Did Dickens stand before the masses as he wrote or Shakesphere perform his pieces impromptu? No! Dr. Seuss wrote stories alone, and Shel Silverstien wrote alone. Stories are unique, they come from a single parent, and are born of solitude, not union. And that is why I will continue to tell my stories even when no one is listening. Because it is not for the story to be heard, simply to be. When I speak here, I am not merely the writer, I am the book also. And like a book, I cannot stop telling a story simply because no one is listening. Look all around you! Thousands of books remain to be read, to be explored, to be cherished and loved and even hated, just to be felt. All around you are hundreds, thousands, of authors sitting alone in their rooms and kitchens and studios and offices and cafes, all writing furiously in their solitude. And all around you are hundreds, thousands of books crying out with their stories, just waiting to be read. And that is all I am. I am the author and the book in one. And I am simply telling my story for whoever may read me, and when I am no longer read, I will still tell my story, because there is no way to know when someone…might…start…listening.
Here is one entry from my collection. It is meant to be read aloud, prefereably in a public place.
I see that, at the moment, I have no audience. Well, I suppose that any logical person, any reasonable and sensible person, would stop talking now. But I don’t think that I will. Oh, I can be a reasonable as the next man, and far more logical than most, but in this case I don’t think logic or reason should apply. You see, the greatest writers in the world wrote their stories in isolation. Do you think Hans Chrisian Anderson made up his stories before a crowd? Did Dickens stand before the masses as he wrote or Shakesphere perform his pieces impromptu? No! Dr. Seuss wrote stories alone, and Shel Silverstien wrote alone. Stories are unique, they come from a single parent, and are born of solitude, not union. And that is why I will continue to tell my stories even when no one is listening. Because it is not for the story to be heard, simply to be. When I speak here, I am not merely the writer, I am the book also. And like a book, I cannot stop telling a story simply because no one is listening. Look all around you! Thousands of books remain to be read, to be explored, to be cherished and loved and even hated, just to be felt. All around you are hundreds, thousands, of authors sitting alone in their rooms and kitchens and studios and offices and cafes, all writing furiously in their solitude. And all around you are hundreds, thousands of books crying out with their stories, just waiting to be read. And that is all I am. I am the author and the book in one. And I am simply telling my story for whoever may read me, and when I am no longer read, I will still tell my story, because there is no way to know when someone…might…start…listening.
