by: Tushar Jain
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 unparallel 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.
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