The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

– Omar Khayyam

There is a growing impatience perceptible amongst those who have not set apart time in recent years for a book or two, to be read without pause from beginning to end, for sans the habit of the narrative, it is soon replaced by a subtle disdain of the same. When stories are unraveled gradually, any plot separated from its inevitably dramatic conclusion by only so much as a page, when the writer gladly assumes the pain of having to wait himself before he sets out each virtue from curse, each cause from effect, there is a gentle cadence that comes to life innocuously and demands extraordinary amounts of patience from the reader to be experienced as it should be–just as a gondola rises gently skyward and catches, as if it were simply destiny, the southerly wind to commence its quest for the Pole.

At first, one must tolerate the introduction, for, without its presentation, it becomes but impossible to understand any of what is to follow, and thereby, in the introduction will also the author press his advantage: at first, there will be a fascination expressed toward an object of interest, and slowly will it be molded into some action executed; whereupon, the reader is encouraged to construct an empirical image, a locomotive to be guided around on the rails of chance and circumstance. In quick succession follows the thick of the plot, like a broth being brewed by too many a cook, a series of desirable and undesirable fortuities playing mercilessly upon the strengths of the subject soul, and hereupon the creator has his strings drawn taught and sharp: no longer is he free to negotiate corollaries as he may so wish, but suddenly finds himself treading on eggshells, navigating from one precipitation to another dictated solely by the presupposed moral of his tales.

Insofar as it can be ascertained, the journey commenced with absolute liberty and crescendoed with a rescission of the same; is it of any note, therefore, that it must culminate with fight between a creator who created nothing and a destroyer who destroyed nothing? It is, and so: in the final struggles between bend of plot and destination of creation will the reader discover the book in its truest sense, for all the contrivances of the author will then be laid bare–misfortune will be defied and serendipities will shine through; then, as it not were before, the pen will script a more apocryphal rendition of humanity than any sword cleft in any stone. It is till that moment that the reader must bear, regrettable though as it may be to occur at the denouement, for, alas, that is the design of everything that is valued. Were the battle to be stationed elsewhere, little meaning would it create, albeit carry forth, for then the reader is clueless and at a loss to understand completely the nature of that universe, and must, therefore, pay with patience and respect for the writer’s diligence to learn of the foibles and triumphs of all that he has created–be it for our pleasure or education.

At every moment the song is brought to life, verse by verse and individually, the loneliest flaw in composition can take away considerably from the erugate polish of the exterior, like a carving blade taken to pulchritude, much more so than has been contributed towards the success of the enterprise by all that was flawless. Long gone are the times when literature was reserved for the elite, today it but assumes the garb of a dire necessity and, thus, the writer, too, comes more easily under scrutiny for failing than is he lauded for succeeding. To be found lacking in the commitment to sustain the reader’s interest is guaranteed to result in immense loses, for then the book is deconstructed already; all possible avenues of escape from the young labyrinth must be plugged with expert providence, while also permitting the reader to breathe, to interpret, to inhale deeply during times of stress, to be not availed a single moment of reconsideration.

At this juncture I would not recommend such rigorous evaluations of authorship for it is a struggle in itself: imagine the plight of one who is aware completely of some Secret but must put it down as a catena of ideas and developments before being permitted to relish the awe of those having read the story in its entirety? It is a rigorous penance of self-creation, self-censure, self-teaching and self-destruction, and is reserved, alas, for none in particular but those willing to pledge their time for the rewards of writing and writing alone.

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