I’ve realised again that I can’t tell the difference between writing and reading, the punctuation of silence. I pause, with head cocked to one side, discerning, from whence comes a sound indistinct, who authors? I stumbled, flirting, crying, still listening, yet absent, flummoxed, writing.
Ah, could this be the moment the reader writes, or the moment the author dies?
1 comment:
Hello....I've really enjoyed reading these November posts of yours , thank you. You have put me in mind of a book I read years ago, 'Death of the Author'and the strange questions it throws up.
I think I might have come to the conclusion that not only what we read and write , but what we do, what we are, is projection and self reflection. That is to say, we make of things what we will.
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