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Literature was born not the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature. Vladimir Nabokov
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Recent Comments
- bhupinder: Wonderfully well written, John ! Always a delight to visit y
- Warwick Paul Onyeama: This is a wonderful photograph that catches a moment in time
- somebadplankton: Sent me to the dictionary for quiffed.
- john baker: Gracias, Bhupinder.
- Bhupinder Singh: Superb, John. The last two lines are superlative.
- Catherine Isolde Eisner: In addition, doesn’t Graham's surname, Hendrick, recall th
- john baker: Thanks, Jim. Your comments and insights are always welcome.
- Jim Murdoch: A lot likeable about this. I hear comedians are often approa
- Mark Patrick Lynch: Thanks, John. It's good to see that Paul Sutherland's man
- john baker: Thanks, Mark. Good to hear from you, and to read your story
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