On Poets and Muses

There is a natural inclination amongst humankind to endeavour to understand that which is otherwise seemingly incomprehensible. Since man first gazed upon the winking expanse of heaven and roamed the lengths of the unspoilt earth, he attempted to unravel its fabric, chasing the golden threads of the untiring sun, as though by doing so he could cut through the fog of mystery that shrouded his existence.

It was not long before the layers of the cosmos were peeled back, its substances quartered, its causes dissected. The magic once saturating the air and the sun-kissed soil vanished. It fled from the scythes of cool rationality, away from the probing minds of insatiable men, into the nether darkness of a world not yet realized.

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Death of a Novelist: Identity and Social Media

The demand on the novelist is simple: intimately understand what it means to be human– all the anger, joy, sorrow, weakness, triumph, beauty, brokenness– and depict this humanness in a raw but poetic work of fiction that simultaneously makes readers laugh, cry, and contemplate life (and death), while dramatically and indefinitely altering the way they perceive both themselves and the universe.

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