In an essay about Kafka, David Foster Wallace wrote the following words, “the horrific struggle to establish a human self results in a self whose humanity is inseparable from that horrific struggle. […] our endless and impossible journey toward home is in fact our home.”
Now, he was talking about Kafka’s works, but I think that phrase pretty much sums up what life is all about. Continue reading
Sometimes I want to write something beautiful, something meant to inspire. And this burning hunger grows inside me, consumes me to the point that I can’t write anymore. And it all feels pointless. It seems as if I will never be able to write more than just words, more than a nice story.
After all, writers are also readers. And all the stories that left a mark on us appear to be much more than just words. More than simple stories, they’re the fuel that ignites what’s most human in us, the engine that has driven mankind towards greatness. Continue reading
Everything I write acts as a sort of personal metaphor; I try to add a bit of myself in each and everyone of my stories. It’s probably the easiest way to add realism to a fictional world. And furthermore, I’m the one person I know best in the world, so to speak.
But it wasn’t always like that. Continue reading
You’ve got five painters in the same room, painting the same object. If all five of them employ the same style (or manner) when painting that object, almost always at least four of them are doing something wrong.
At least two of them would much rather paint something else, and of those two at least one would use the same style and technique as before.
Also, at least one of them would like to paint the same object, but in a different style.
What I’m trying to say is that there are only two requirements when making art: one is to be passionate about your subject matter, and the other one is to do it exactly how you feel like it. Continue reading
I realized something today about the way certain works of art make me feel, something I couldn’t exactly describe until now.
So, here goes nothing: Certain works of art make us feel nostalgic about things we never even experienced.
For a few minutes or hours or whatever, we find ourselves submerged in a world that could never really existed, and at the same time we feel that if it were to exist, it would still be a world we’d never belong to.
It’s a strange feeling, to read about experiences you never experienced, to see things you never saw in person, to hear what your ears never heard, and feel nostalgic about them. It’s like a deja vu, actually.
I believe the biggest difference between artists and “normal” people is the artists’ ability to describe what everyone feels, and sometimes, if they’re lucky, to describe something no one else has felt before.
Maybe this is one of the great things about art: making the impossible not possible, but plausible. To give us hope that the life we think we deserve can exist.
One of my favorite quotes goes like this: “Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.”
Ambrose Redmon said that.
Fear is an impulse, or like the tattoo on my arm says, “Fear is the mind killer.” Frank Herbert said that. In Dune. So you can’t stop being afraid, but you can fight fear, you can control it.
I don’t think I ever told you how I became a writer. Or if I did, it was long ago. Continue reading
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” – Charles Bukowski
Whether you believe in God or karma or simply fate odds are that at least once in your life you’ll feel as if the entire Universe is working against a specific desire of yours. And you’ll want to give up. Continue reading