To say that for a reader, the sequentially apathetic bloke, a writer is dead is not only lackadaisical scurrility but also it is feasibly not being emphatic. You see, for a reader, a writer is never alive. He or she is basically an absurd, skewed name labeled on the spine of a book. In layman’s terms, if you were to avail yourself of prostitutes, the names would be the last piece of information you’d like to familiarize with. You’d be more inclined towards the material they are to offer rather than their proper designations in your sessions of ‘humping’.
Coming to terms with it – reading is classically like sex. Both are deeds to pleasure, both involve a climax and two partners are incorporated – the reader and the writer. Gauging the example warily, the pleasure is derived from the love making or contrastingly, the reading.
As is most common to knowledge that is beleaguered by sex and also by the ethical jurisprudence of true narcissism, one partner is penchant on deriving from the second. Consistently similar to the analogy, the reader is avid for his own interests – I iterate – for him, the writer does not exist. The pleasure does, the deed does – the doer doesn’t.
Now if the topic is veered to the most literal aspect of a writer being dead, then the reader ends up metaphorically, a necrophiliac.
This is the kind of inherent sterling imbroglio meshed around the whole principle of the thing – the indispensable, nettling discrepancy between death, extinction and realism. The notion that estranges one from the other is elusive and by all intents and purposes, controversial.
So, to say that a writer is dead is wrong. So, to say that a writer is momentous to the reader is wrong. So, to say that a writer never existed – is but only the better and less perplex part of wrong. Alas, that is the only kind of wrong to incur and cherish.
About The Author
Tushar Jain
I invite all criticisms and of course, praises are indispensable - mosaics12@rediffmail.com
