The perils of illusion - how to write a novel
Jack shall curse thy when the illusion is gone.
The first smile that twisted his lips awkwardly in a week, he caught a glimpse as he walked pass a mirror on the door. -who puts a mirror on the door?- he thought smiling again, he didn't care, it was not his house, but the rent was cheap.
Jack noticed the picture on the new book, Bertrand Russell was looking slightly off centre, he couldn't catch his gaze, Jack thought out loud admitting the irony "There is a vain trust in the photographer's instructions, posing and taking good care of your high collar", philosophy my ass- he murmured.
Jack had his own ideas about how agnostics should stand in front of a camera. He suddenly realized that book will never be read and will simply add to the pile of "I'd like to be an intellectual" pile with "History of Christianity" under "The complete works of Sigmund Freud".
Jack started compiling his notes again, some from very far away and long past.-" It is a different world" he thought, literally. He took another sip and kept punching keys. He also thought his tolerance for almost everything was proverbial, including alcohol, so he punched away.
He listened to the cars rolling on the wet road at 2am, the main street was only 100 metres away from his place, the window was wide open in winter, the cold air was a godsend, and then again Bertrand Russell was watching in sepia.
He was alone, trying to remember whatever his brain chemistry could reconstruct from that year "or were there two?" he rapidly corrected his notes to accommodate fallacy or add a hint of fiction, after all he was portraying a different man, a man that had a death sentence and didn't die, those memories were warm in light, but cold in the mind, like the concrete he remembered landing softly and resting his cheek for a while still laughing drunk.
1988, "it seems ancient" he thought for a second, "what I did and what I saw is somewhat fresh in my mind I had 20 years of brewing, but tonight we meet again"
To be continued...
The first smile that twisted his lips awkwardly in a week, he caught a glimpse as he walked pass a mirror on the door. -who puts a mirror on the door?- he thought smiling again, he didn't care, it was not his house, but the rent was cheap.
Jack noticed the picture on the new book, Bertrand Russell was looking slightly off centre, he couldn't catch his gaze, Jack thought out loud admitting the irony "There is a vain trust in the photographer's instructions, posing and taking good care of your high collar", philosophy my ass- he murmured.
Jack had his own ideas about how agnostics should stand in front of a camera. He suddenly realized that book will never be read and will simply add to the pile of "I'd like to be an intellectual" pile with "History of Christianity" under "The complete works of Sigmund Freud".
Jack started compiling his notes again, some from very far away and long past.-" It is a different world" he thought, literally. He took another sip and kept punching keys. He also thought his tolerance for almost everything was proverbial, including alcohol, so he punched away.
He listened to the cars rolling on the wet road at 2am, the main street was only 100 metres away from his place, the window was wide open in winter, the cold air was a godsend, and then again Bertrand Russell was watching in sepia.
He was alone, trying to remember whatever his brain chemistry could reconstruct from that year "or were there two?" he rapidly corrected his notes to accommodate fallacy or add a hint of fiction, after all he was portraying a different man, a man that had a death sentence and didn't die, those memories were warm in light, but cold in the mind, like the concrete he remembered landing softly and resting his cheek for a while still laughing drunk.
1988, "it seems ancient" he thought for a second, "what I did and what I saw is somewhat fresh in my mind I had 20 years of brewing, but tonight we meet again"
To be continued...
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