There is a funny kind of leakage when you’re a writer…I mean of the genuine kind as opposed to the manufactured beauty queens of the media industry. Nearly all the time you are poised to commit pen to paper – typeface to computer screen – in a trembling and tremulous desire to issue forth a pointed little piece of prose that will somehow encapsulate what is happening within and around you at that particular moment of articulation.
What you also learn is that you are in possession of a mind-linkage and rhythmic style which enables you to put together a pattern of language that may or may not be wholly concise.
I would say, most of what you find at the opening of modern day bookshops consisting of literary creations is almost anything but – or, in fact, exactly that, as you wish. Whether or not your brain turns to mush is pretty much based on your own selective process at the point of entry. You could maybe just ignore that which is laid before you. I don’t know.
What does happen high up in the mountains is that you discover a high-altitude discernment of staggering proportions.
“Sunlight on a rockface reveals distinction.” – Heidegger
I am inclined to add that this saying pertains all the more on a privileged morning when one is drinking coffee in a high street book store.
