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- Winged
with Death Reviews
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A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man-or this woman-may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete-after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.
Orhan Pamuk
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A Poem
john baker, January 20th, 2007. No comments. Filed under art, blogging, literature, quotations, writing.
As the President Spoke
Someone hung dolls from the chandelier and
a nun fingered an abacus in her mind.
Prisoners giggled in their cells, watching
a pederast pass cigarettes between the bars.
Grandpa wiped his glasses with a dishrag while
a sophomore solved equations with a cheese-slicer.
An amputee said he “didn’t see it coming,” and
a mother of three said, “Who uses a car as a weapon?”
An estimated two million illegals flushed toilets while
an emergency-room janitor mopped up blood.
It began to pour, and
citizens ran for shelter.
Michael Z. Gates
As the President Spoke is copyright © Michael Z. Gates. It was published on his own Twists & Turns blog and is reproduced here with my thanks and the author’s permission.
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