Doing nothing was as honourable as any available course of action. Think of Hamlet, think of Job, think of Jesus before Pilate.
The characters act for reasons that they can’t control and, as readers, we have to believe in their motivations, their sense of choice and in the reality of their suffering, even though, deep down, we know it’s all just puppetry on the part of the writer.
It is a matter of mere coincidence that there is often a real individual who corresponds with a celebrity, signifies them.
Is the writer cruel that makes his characters suffer only to bring them to triumph or tragedy in the end?
An unpublished writer should doubt themselves. They should constantly wonder whether what they’re creating has merit. And then, having doubted, they should take up their pen and see if they can’t make it better.
All life is preoccupied with death. Death is the only certain future. Yet in the face of reason, everyone holds out hope for the highly improbable.
Because he believed in himself, he believed what he did was important. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Publishers are businesses and I don’t blame them for that. If they didn’t make money by publishing books, there wouldn’t be any books.
Who can say they saw a whole play or read a whole book? Each has their own experience, their own play, their own book
Inhumanity is part of humanity as much as suffering is a part of stories. Cruelty is written in the human script.
I don’t see big subjects as separate from little ones. Yes, you could trudge through life with great human tragedies played out before your eyes without ever taking notice. Or you could see a universe in the smallest thing. The way a person takes their coffee, for example, might say something profound and important about that person, about all humanity, about existence itself.
The bacteria of resentment bred: distance turned to distrust; distrust turned to bitterness; bitterness to hate, which is, after all, a kind of grievous love