Wednesday, February 16, 2005


I was lucky enough to meet F in Toronto during the winter of 2001 - six months before he died. After admiring him for years through the pages of his work, I was pleased to find him exactly as I expected: dishevelled older gentleman sipping a glass of Macallen Single Malt, a sparkle in his eye. I would have been disappointed if it were any other way.

"How can I continue writing when I feel like giving up each time you pen a new masterpiece? I read your work, and it only serves to remind me that I will never write as well."


"Please, if everyone did that, no-one would ever write anything. Every time R publishes a book I swear I'll never write again. I know that I'll never touch the skill that he so effortlessly and faultlessly demonstrates, but I write anyway, with the hope that I get better with each word."

And I'm not sure that three lines will ever hold the same weight as these.

No comments:

Post a Comment