Book: As we wrote the novel

The idea existed before the invention of the printing press, and the people who wrote the best hundred books never read them. The book takes its place in the world, but they are not the purpose of the universe. Books should stand side by side with my steak and roast lamb, the smell of the sea, a touch of the hand, a reminder of past hopes and all the other components of the overall outcome of our seventy years. We're talking about books like they're the voice of life itself, whereas they are only its faint echo. Tales as charming stories, they are fragrant, like the primrose after a long winter, and quiet, as the voices of rooks, fading with the sunset. But we don't write fairy tales. We produce "human documents" and anhatomirim soul.

I think, she added after a long silence, not letting go of poker, that only someone who has never suffered and does not know what suffering is, loves to read about them. If I could write, I would write a fun book, so that the people reading it, laughing.

What would become of literature without human stupidity, and without sin? And what is literary work? After all, being a writer means to earn their living digging through the garbage heap of human misery. Imagine, if you can, a perfect world, a world where adults never say anything stupid and do not act recklessly, where little boys never acting up and children do not make awkward remarks; where dogs never fight and cats don't ask night concerts; where the husband is never under the Shoe of his wife and mother-in-law not to nag sister-in-law; where men never go to bed in boots and sailors do not swear; where plumbers to regularly perform their work and old maids don't dress like a young girl; where the blacks never steal chickens, and a man full of dignity, not suffering from sea sickness. Without it - that will be your humor and wit?.. Imagine a world where hearts never get sick of wounds and the lips do not curl in pain; where eyes never rumanetsa tears, my legs are tired and stomachs are never empty! Without it - what's left of your pathetic outpourings? Imagine a world where men always love only one wife, and, moreover, that is the one you want; where women allow themselves only to kiss her husband; where the hearts of men are never violent, and thought women impure; where there is neither hatred nor envy, nor lust, nor despair! Where you will get all of your love scenes, entanglements, subtle psychological analysis? My dear brown, we are all novelists, playwrights, poets - live & 're working up an itself fat at the expense of misery of our fellow humans. God created man and woman, and the woman, he plunged his teeth into the Apple, created writer.

That, my dear, the story of my life - to this day. I told her to show you how easy it is "to be taken". Select the house and palaukite plaintively at the back door. When you open the door, runs and RUB on the first leg. RUB hard and trustingly look up. I noticed that nothing affects people as trusting. They themselves it is not much, and they like it. Always be gullible. However, be prepared for the unexpected. If you are not absolutely sure how you will be received, try a little wet. Why people prefer wet cat dry - I could never understand, but undeniable wet cat immediately let the house and let it warm up, then dry the cat can spray from a garden hose. And eat a piece of stale bread, if you're able to do it if you offer. Human beings are always shocked to the core at the sight of a cat that eats stale bread.

That's how it goes in our world. There lived a boy and a girl. They loved each other, but both were poor, so we agreed to wait until the young man will earn as much money as you need in order to live in abundance, then they will PowerChute and will enjoy happiness. He did it in a very long time for the money to cobble together too slowly, and once he did that, I had to make a lot, so he and she could be truly happy. Anyway, the young man reached his goal and returned home a wealthy man. And they met again in the poorly furnished living room, where it broke up. But they are not sat side by side, close to each other as before. It is so long lived, one that has become an old maid and was angry at him because he tracked mud on the carpet with dirty shoes. And he worked hard earning the money that has become hard and cold like the money itself, and could not think of any gentle words to say to her. They sat for a while at a paper screen in front of the fireplace and wondered why once, in the day of farewell, and shed burning tears. Then again they said goodbye and were happy with that.

In his youth, we all imagine, if the summer - entirely Sunny days and moonlit nights, when the light breathes the Western breeze, and everywhere roses grow luxuriantly. But, growing up, we soon get tired to wait, when will disperse grey covering the sky. We close the door, enter the room, huddle by the fire and wonder why is the wind constantly blows from the East, and, of course, you think to breed roses.

What man thinks - really thinks - remains there and grows in silence. What a man writes in books are the thoughts that he would like to impose on people.

... Man always remains what he created. Do not imagine that you can take it apart and improve on the understanding.

Dear child, audacity - that's the password that unlocks any door better than any "open sesame!"

In my youth I was a friend. Since then, my life consisted of other friends - sometimes very dear and close to me, but none of them became for me what was that... Because he was my first friend and we lived with him in a world that was more spacious than the current: in a world were more and joy and grief and we loved and hated deeper than we love and hate in a close little world, where I have to exist now.

In fact, there is only one story. We sit at their desks and think and think and write and write, but the story remains the same. People talked, and people listened to her many years ago. We tell it to each other today, and we will tell each other a thousand years later. And this story is "once Lived a man and a woman, and a woman loved a man." Small critic will scream that it is old and demand something newer. He thinks like the children that our world can still be something new.

This morning I watched your striped cat. She was crawling along the roof of the cabin, behind the boxes with flowers, creeping to the young thrush sitting on the revolt of the rope. Blood lust shone in her eyes, murder lurked frantically in every tense muscle of her body. Destiny is an exception favoring the weak - suddenly directed her attention at me, and then she first discovered my presence. For her it worked, as the heavenly vision on biblical criminal. In the blink of an eye it turned into another creature entirely. Ravenous beast, seeking whom he may devour, suddenly disappeared. In his place sat a long-tailed, feathered angel was looking up into the sky with an expression, which was one-third innocence and two-thirds admiration of the beauties of nature.

With the creation of the world one half of humanity strives to "fix" another, and yet nobody managed to get rid of human nature: it manifests itself everywhere. To suppress the evil is the same as to suppress the volcano: plug it in one place it breaks in another.