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December 24, 2006

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My Father's Suitcase

Orhan Pamuk’s Nobel lecture, reprinted in The New Yorker, rocks:

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words.
(BTW, Io, Saturnalia!)

Posted December 24, 2006 at 10:41 | Comments (2) | Permasnark
File under: Books, Writing & Such, Briefly Noted


Io, Saturnalia, every one.

I've got to say – I'm a writer, and I don't like locking myself in my room and creating a world in darkness. Instead, I like to open my curtains, have an adventure in my life, and write about those experiences in other people's story. I want to explain those seconds in life, where you can feel something... and then it's gone. Like the second I stood at the dining room table at a farm the other day, and a small dog hair of sorts came floating in the air into the sun, glistening slightly in my right ear, and landing on my jersey. There was something really weird and beautiful about that moment... and that's what i want to write about. I want to write about world's that tell us about how the world REALLY is, when you look at it through different eyes... through joy and LIFE.

Sitting in my room all day won't allow me to EXPERIENCE the moments in life that I want to write about!

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