Imagine – the sun pouring in, the fingers feeding in on the typewriter, a turgid film of sweat on the gristly brow, a tackling writer milling in the temerity to finish a single draft, 700 words or maybe 7000 words. A kind of unremitting perseverance that is outlandishly unparalleled to anything under the sun. This is not contextual dirge posed righteously… this is simply an irradiating connotation of righteous dirge posed contextually.
A vitalizing irony to the topic itself – a writer never does die. To earmark it justly – the instigating part of any type of local discourse on the Arden Shakespeare begins with – ‘he became immortal through his words.’ Immortality and death – the most converse of critical idioms, left again to a harmonizing irony.
Whenever we are forsaken with an irony, two condemned ilks of enlivening it are confronted - perspective and apathy. Perspective being the share of the dichotomy for a writer, and apathy being the same for a reader.
A writer’s perspective begins only and only after the realm of writing anything – then, he’s abounded with what critics claim to be ‘the intellectual’s coup de grace’ – all the languid and chronic mortifications that is the most natural element of any or every author. This is where the writer lives the bona fide work of his own majesty – concisely and yet more precisely, this is where an Edgar Allan Poe begets to be a ‘he’ instead of an ‘it’. Through the whimsical 60,000 words that embellish the art of a writer, none of them is a convivial doormat for his mortality. What sheens through is his individuality, that being in the curtailing circumstance of ‘George Washington and the cherry tree’ creed.
Per se – P. G. Wodehouse was a prankster and a humorist in his days at Dulwich University – eventually, he scribbled down ninety-seven novels of inimitable farce that spanned his lifetime.
To say that for a reader, the sequentially apathetic bloke, a writer is dead is not only lackadaisical scurrility but also it is feasibly not being emphatic. You see, for a reader, a writer is never alive. He or she is basically an absurd, skewed name labeled on the spine of a book. In layman’s terms, if you were to avail yourself of prostitutes, the names would be the last piece of information you’d like to familiarize with. You’d be more inclined towards the material they are to offer rather than their proper designations in your sessions of ‘humping’.
Coming to terms with it – reading is classically like sex. Both are deeds to pleasure, both involve a climax and two partners are incorporated – the reader and the writer. Gauging the example warily, the pleasure is derived from the love making or contrastingly, the reading.
As is most common to knowledge that is beleaguered by sex and also by the ethical jurisprudence of true narcissism, one partner is penchant on deriving from the second. Consistently similar to the analogy, the reader is avid for his own interests – I iterate – for him, the writer does not exist. The pleasure does, the deed does – the doer doesn’t.
Now if the topic is veered to the most literal aspect of a writer being dead, then the reader ends up metaphorically, a necrophiliac.
This is the kind of inherent sterling imbroglio meshed around the whole principle of the thing – the indispensable, nettling discrepancy between death, extinction and realism. The notion that estranges one from the other is elusive and by all intents and purposes, controversial.
So, to say that a writer is dead is wrong. So, to say that a writer is momentous to the reader is wrong. So, to say that a writer never existed – is but only the better and less perplex part of wrong. Alas, that is the only kind of wrong to incur and cherish.