From Flaubert to Teju Cole, writers have the power to make us live through their books. But will novels still be an essential branch of life in 20 years time?
I read in a quiet corner of the room, sitting in a porter’s chair, reminiscent of gatekeepers’ chairs of long ago, fenced in by wide protruding wings. I read slowly, repeating the words out loud, since sound and rhythm are an intrinsic part of the creativity. Quite quickly I can tell if a work is, or is not, for me.
Story and its inner dynamic is a most mysterious thing. It can be overt, as in JM Coetzee’s Disgrace, or covert, as in WG Sebald’s Rings of Saturn, to mention just two of the more recent proponents of the magic properties within the word.
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