If The Book Is A Mystery To

One Is Always Changing. I Don't Want To Write The Same Book And I Couldn't, Because I'm A Different Person.

Even Now, All Possible Feelings Do Not Yet Exist, There Are Still Those That Lie Beyond Our Capacity And Our Imagination. From Time To Time, When A Piece Of Music No One Has Ever Written Or A Painting No One Has Ever Painted, Or Something Else Impossible To Predict, Fathom Or Yet Describe Takes Place, A New Feeling Enters The World. And Then, For The Millionth Time In The History Of Feeling, The Heart Surges And Absorbs The Impact.

No, What I Felt Was The Torment Of Waiting, Stuck Between The End Of One Sentence And The Beginning Of The Next Which Might Or Might Not Bring A Hail Storm, Plane Crash, Poetic Justice, Or A Miraculous Reversal.

I Scowled At The World. And The World Scowled Back. We Were Locked In A Stare Of Mutual Disgust.

To Me, This Is The Singular Privilege Of Reading Literature: We Are Allowed To Step Into Another's Life.