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Imagine – the sun pouring
in, the fingers feeding in on the typewriter, a turgid
film of sweat on the gristly brow, a tackling writer
milling in the temerity to finish a single draft, 700
words or maybe 7000 words. A kind of unremitting
perseverance that is outlandishly unparallel to anything
under the sun. This is not contextual dirge posed
righteously… this is simply an irradiating connotation
of righteous dirge posed contextually.
A vitalizing irony to the
topic itself – a writer never does die. To earmark it
justly – the instigating part of any type of local
discourse on the Arden Shakespeare begins with – ‘he
became immortal through his words.’ Immortality and
death – the most converse of critical idioms, left again
to a harmonizing irony.
Whenever we are forsaken
with an irony, two condemned ilks of enlivening it are
confronted - perspective and apathy. Perspective being the
share of the dichotomy for a writer, and apathy being the
same for a reader.
A writer’s perspective
begins only and only after the realm of writing anything
– then, he’s abounded with what critics claim to be
‘the intellectual’s coup de grace’ – all the
languid and chronic mortifications that is the most
natural element of any or every author. This is where the
writer lives the bona fide work of his own majesty –
concisely and yet more precisely, this is where an Edgar
Allan Poe begets to be a ‘he’ instead of an ‘it’.
Through the whimsical 60,000 words that embellish the art
of a writer, none of them is a convivial doormat for his
mortality. What sheens through is his individuality, that
being in the curtailing circumstance of ‘George
Washington and the cherry tree’ creed. Per se – P. G.
Wodehouse was a prankster and a humorist in his days at
Dulwich University – eventually, he scribbled down
ninety-seven novels of inimitable farce that spanned his
lifetime.
To say that for a reader,
the sequentially apathetic bloke, a writer is dead is not
only lackadaisical scurrility but also it is feasibly not
being emphatic. You see, for a reader, a writer is never
alive. He or she is basically an absurd, skewed name
labeled on the spine of a book. In layman’s terms, if
you were to avail yourself of prostitutes, the names would
be the last piece of information you’d like to
familiarize with. You’d be more inclined towards the
material they are to offer rather than their proper
designations in your sessions of ‘humping’.
Coming to terms with it –
reading is classically like sex. Both are deeds to
pleasure, both involve a climax and two partners are
incorporated – the reader and the writer. Gauging the
example warily, the pleasure is derived from the love
making or contrastingly, the reading.
As is most common to
knowledge that is beleaguered by sex and also by the
ethical jurisprudence of true narcissism, one partner is
penchant on deriving from the second. Consistently similar
to the analogy, the reader is avid for his own interests
– I iterate – for him, the writer does not exist. The
pleasure does, the deed does – the doer doesn’t.
Now if the topic is veered
to the most literal aspect of a writer being dead, then
the reader ends up metaphorically, a necrophiliac.
This is the kind of
inherent sterling imbroglio meshed around the whole
principle of the thing – the indispensable, nettling
discrepancy between death, extinction and realism. The
notion that estranges one from the other is elusive and by
all intents and purposes, controversial.
So, to say that a writer is
dead is wrong. So, to say that a writer is momentous to
the reader is wrong. So, to say that a writer never
existed – is but only the better and less perplex part
of wrong. Alas, that is the only kind of wrong to incur
and cherish.
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About
The Author
Tushar
Jain
I invite all criticisms and of course,
praises are indispensable - mosaics12@rediffmail.com |
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