Character: Margaret Lee

We both were twin singles. I knew it the invisible bonds of her story captured me, deprived of freedom of movement, and after the nervous excitement I felt fear.

Looks like it came out of nowhere. As if she never existed in nature before becoming a writer. As if she imagined herself simultaneously with writing my first book.

Famous for its mysteries no less than his creativity, it was a perfect mystery.

I used to dwell in the shade and made friends with my sadness.

And every day I discovered something I read a few lines or pages, allowing forgotten voices of the dead sound in my head. Did they feel, these dead writers, that someone reads their books? Were you a thin ray of light in the supernatural darkness? You feel immortal soul contact with the mind of the reader? I hope so. After all, it must be so lonely being dead.

Do you know why my books are so successful?
- For many reasons, I suppose.
- That's it. But primarily because they have the eyeballs, development of the plot and the ending, in that sequence. Of course, all stories have exposition, development and ending, but they do not always follow each other in sequence. The correct order is all that matters. That's what readers love my books.

"Oh." What a wealth of meanings in a single syllable! Fear. Despair. Regret and resignation. There was relief, but some bleak. And mountain, long and deep.

Art in the completeness and formal perfection is unable to give solace.

Come on... Eight one minute. Hot water bottle was ready, the glass is filled with tap water. Being late does not. At eight in the evening the world had ceased to exist for me. It was time to read.
The period between eight p.m. and an hour or two a night was my magic time. On a background of blue, embroidered with "wicks" bed covers pages of the open book, covered by the circle of light from the nightlight was for me the gateway to another world.

When people die, they disappear. Disappear their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Disappears their flesh, and eventually bones. Disappears and the memory of these people. It's terrible, and at the same time, of course. However, some people manage to avoid disappearance, as they continue to exist in their books. We can reopen these people - their humor, their manner of speech, their quirks. Through written words, they can cause our anger or bring us joy. They can make us complacent. They can be puzzling. They can change us. And all this despite the fact that they're dead. Like a fly in amber, or as a body frozen in eternal ice, a wonderful combination of ordinary ink and paper maintains that the laws of nature should disappear. This is akin to magic.

Sometimes I would take from the shelf a particular book at random and read from it page other. In the end, reading is as much a manifestation of care, like a friendly conversation. Let these books aren't old enough to be valued exclusively for its age, and is not so significant to attract the attention of collectors, but I like to care for them, even if their content is as dull and bland as their appearance. No matter how boring nor was I read the excerpt, he never leaves me indifferent - after all, who is now deceased at the time believed these words deserve to keep them for posterity.

There's too many books to read them all for one human life, and therefore where to draw the line in advance by limiting the scope of your reading.

The final standard formula "and since then they lived happily ever after" didn't work.

Feeling and knowing the author, his thoughts, anxieties and desires, you will read the text with such ease, as if with a candle in hand, peering over the shoulder of the writer.