novel

But perhaps the greatest escapism of all is to take refuge in the domesticity of the past, the home that history and literature become, avoiding the one moment of time in which we are not at home, yet have to live: the present.

And once the novelist has brought us to this state, in which, as in all purely mental states, every emotion is multiplied ten-fold, into which his book comes to disturb us as might a dream, but a dream more lucid and more abiding than those which come to us in sleep, why then, for the space of an hour he sets free within us all the joys and sorrows in the world, a few of which only we should have to spend years of our actual life in getting to know, and the most intense of which would never be revealed to us because the slow course of their development prevents us from perceiving them. It is the same in life; the heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow; but we know it only through reading, through our imagination: in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.

Fitzgerald has charm. It's a silly word, but it's an exact word for me. I like 'The Great Gatsby' and it's sad, gay nostalgia.

The stupidity of people comes from having an answer for everything. The wisdom of the novel comes from having a question for everything.

I think the novel is a wonder....it has vitality to an extraordinary degree, and glamour, and a great deal of underlying thought of unusual quality....And as for the sheer writing, it's astonishing. [About The Great Gatsby]

Knowing, above all, that I would come looking, and find what he had left for me, all that remained of The Jungle Book in the pocket of his doctor__ coat, that folder-up, yellowed page torn from the back of the book, with a bristle of thick, coarse hairs clenced inside. Galina, says my grandfather__ handwriting, above and below a child__ drawing of the tiger, who is curved like the blade of a scimitar across the page. Galina, it says, and that is how I know to find him again, in Galina, in the story he hadn__ told me but perhaps wished he had.

A novel examines not reality but existence. And existence is not what has occurred, existence is the realm of human possibilities, everything that man can become, everything he's capable of. Novelists draw up the map of existence by discovering this or that human possibilit. But again, to exist mean: 'being-in-the-world.' Thus both the character and his world must be understood as possibilities.

Of course, that__ how life is. A turn of events may seem very small at the time it__ happening, but you never really know, do you? How can you?

I write all these remarks with exactly the same feeling as if I were writing a letter to post into the distant past: I am so sure that everything we now take for granted is going to be utterly swept away in the next d

The sight of her made him understand why he'd lost his faith in God.

I am, as it were, the created creating__ paradox, for all its rhetorical trappings, at the beating heart of our shared human journey, and one I invite you to struggle with just as I have while, day in and day out, word by word and line by line, constructing a fictitious autobiography for myself in these pages.

Bringing a novel to light - revealing the form and cadence, shadows and demeanor of a protagonist constructed from thin air - linking scenes and synchronicity across translucent time - holding up a glass brimming with chilled, never-tasted liquid, then sipping from it with intoxicated focus - allowing lovers to make a perilous mess of things, fall apart and nakedly come back together again - looking through conjured windows deep into someone else__ snow-bound solitude, feeling utterly alone yet being all-connected: this is not writing. It__ world-creating.It__ raw, exposed dreaming. It__ humbling. At first too personal and intimate to share, it evolves like a child into a life of its own until I have no say in what comes next. It__ what I wake at 4am to say Yes to, the spinning possibility of a new story relentlessly commanding me to write it down so it can whirl in your experience.

Really, Beliefs have the power to create and the power to destroy... Human beings have the awesome ability to take any experience of their lives and create a meaning that dis-empowers them or one that can literally save their lives....gone through many different phases of Destines and that's what made me to pen down... hope it won't screw-up me again....Something beyond love...

She cries cuz shes lost and she doesn't even know what she wants. Her eyes grow cold as she begs the world to just let her go.lines from Love Vs Destiny...

I'm gonna sit around here, stay away from there I'm gonna make pretend I just don't care. I could get up, go get her back or maybe I'll just let her go.Something beyond Love...lines from Love Vs Destiny...

I love you more than depth of the ocean, but I can't let you feel the pain of it...lines from Love Vs destiny....

No matter how many miles I move away, my love will always remain within the boundary of your heartLines from Love Vs Destiny...

It__ not that we have to leave this life one day, it's how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves, clothing, myrrh, perfumed hair, flirting friends, two strangers' glance; the reflection of the moon, with words like, 'Soon' ... 'do you want me?' ... '...to lie enlaced' ... 'and sleep entwined' thinking ahead, with thoughts behind...?' _, Why!Why can__ we leave this life slowly?