“ All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and the sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. “
— Ernest Hemingway in Esquire, December 1934
To me, writing has always been one of the most powerful wonders that can move a person not just to emotion but action. It is not just a production of beautiful phrases or even a mere reflection of who we are, but a means of connection. Indeed, there is something very private about the process and even the published final product of writing. There is something unique about the special arrangement a writer uses, the way he dips into his arsenal of words, albeit one that is publicly owned. I love to write because when I do, the page becomes a space I own. Yet, this is a space that is inevitably someone else’s, because my motivations and longings are also someone else’s. The world is the muse of the writer, who will go on to inspire the world. In this way, writing and reading hold people together in a life where fragmentation is too easy.
Most of all, I hope that, as with many of the ventures we take on in life, I can gain insights into the very things that bemuse us most, the heart and mind of the human, the friend, the lover and the stranger, and somehow rediscover connections to the rest of the world. In the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”