When I was young, about fifteen or so, I read The Fly by Mansfield, and that story has remained with me through the decades. About 2000 words, and she has created magic.
I had picked up a Mansfield collection last year, including stories like The Garden Party, which, imho, is perhaps the most striking and poignant piece she has ever written. And considering that the world lost her at the age of 34, she is awe-inspiring in the range and body of her stories.
I took the book with me on a short trip last week, and wolved it down whenever I found an hour.
I kept thinking, if I die tomorrow, I’ll have nothing worth mentioning.
This thought finds me often, and it spurs me on. Reading gives me a sort of peace, yes, it takes me away from my world into another’s.
But it also gives me a deep sense of unrest, as if time’s a-wasting and what am I doing about it?
Reading-writing-reading, is my dream-come-true setting. In order to write, though, one must not only read, but also live.
And I guess I have to be off to do some living now, before I can return to my study, and my blogs.
In the meanwhile, happy reading and writing to the writers amongst us all.