I watch the steady decline of language, the distortion of what we call writing, in growing horror. I fear the day when communication consists of a series of grunts, abbreviations and emoticons, when we mourn the loss of true literature. I would rather depart such a cold and artless world than reside within it. For what is a wordsmith when his art lies in ruins? When the words, the tools of his trade, lie mangled and twisted beyond use or recognition?
I live for those rare gems of literature, those layered tales, those journeys, thought-provoking and new. Though few and far between, these tales give me hope for the future, hope that life will stir amongst the ashes of literature, and be born anew.
Leave an ‘easy read’ to the rest of the world, look to those tales that give you pause, look to those that induce thought, question, debate, for only that which raises questions, gives answers.