Of dinosaurs and other writers

August 5, 2017

5th August

Being a writer does not make you more interesting or wiser than others. It doesn’t even make you more eloquent. No, the interesting thing is where a writer puts his or her soul on display for all to see – which is a rare virtue indeed now days, because writers, like everyone else, tend to practice a fake honesty. So much so, honesty has almost become an extinct value in art as in life. We exist in a world of skepticism where people live to consume – wealth is the gauge for all human actions, success or failure is dictated by the cash generated, the profit made. And while we consume, we in turn are consumed by doubt. There is little place left for honesty –


Should we float now, half in dream, from this house, my prison? Drift through the misty morning over the moor as far as the river? The river curves sleek as a snake. Looking back we will glimpse the roofs of the village, the cottages huddled together in claustrophobic patterns. Here at night no light can penetrate the dark. Here sin and excess live in silent secrecy –

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