You have authors like Mccarthy, Murakami and King (who I will come to later) who are prolific, who have written more than one extraordinary book, and then you have the one book wonders on my rack. The solitary diamond in the deep cleavage making it impossible to look anywhere else, making it impossible to think of anything else except burying your head deep and tasting it. The cleavage would look empty yet immensely revealing even without the diamond, but the diamond is what got you to notice it in the first place. (FYI the only competition of a cleavage is a collarbone, both competing for second place, the inner thigh with one leg folded over the other a distant first always. I divert, maybe I will write a favorite sexual encounter series)

These are the ones who were born to write one book, as if the God of creativity needed this book on earth, and chose them as a vessel. Some of them tried another book, some knew their task on earth was over and retired, no one managed to reach those heights.

There must be a hundred or a hundred thousand such authors, but only 5 make it to my rack. A philosopher, a madman, a woman who took away the innocence of childhood and 2 classical geniuses now whose books are now labeled as children’s classics. Books no child must have ever read.

We shall start in the reverse order.

Herman Melville. I haven’t even bothered to ever look up who he is, he might be a she for all I know. His voice is totally American, but he could be an imposter writing in an American voice. I do not know. Let’s cut the crap and the personal history and get masturbating with the words.

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So are you too comfortable? tell me… tell me… 

Is there a question you have asked yourself repeatedly, found no answer, and concluded you shall have to live with it till you die? Wonder why?

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Lastly my favourite. There’s a belief of mine that not all souls are created equal. There’s a depth in some that keeps pulling at you mercilessly, and the buoyancy offered by that depth allows them to soar higher than your eyes can catch, all you can aim for is to hang on for dear life. 

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The prose is dry and ugly for most of the book. Not for Melville the insight of a Dostoevsky or the adroitness of a Steinback where every page has something to say.

But now and then…

He soars.

 

 

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