I Like To Imagine That,

As Readers, We Are Seldom Interested In The Fine Sentiments Of A Lesson Learnt; We Seldom Care About The Good Manners Of Morals. Repentance Puts An End To Conversation; Forgiveness Becomes The Stuff Of Moralistic Tracts. Revenge - Bloodthirsty, Justice-hungry Revenge - Is The Very Essence Of Romance, Lying At The Heart Of Much Of The Best Fiction.

The Telling Of Stories Creates The Real World.

As We Read A Text In Our Own Language, The Text Itself Becomes A Barrier.

Nothing Moves Except My Eyes And My Hand Occasionally Turning A Page, And Yet Something Not Exactly Defined By The Word "text" Unfurls, Progresses, Grows And Takes Root As I Read. But How Does This Process Take Place?

All These Are Readers, And Their Gestures, Their Craft, The Pleasure, The Responsibility And The Power They Derive From Reading, Are Common With Mine. I Am Not Alone.