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Tuesday
Mar032015

Two Kinds

   Many authors confess to having the scales fall from their eyes when first exposed to certain authors or works. Gabriel García Márquez wrote in his autobiography Vivir para catarla (Living to Tell the Tale) that reading Kafka was like a revelation to him. He learned from Kafka that “it was not necessary to demonstrate facts: it was enough for the author to have written something for it to be true, with no proof other than the power of his talent and the authority of his voice.” I had similar revelations when I was first exposed to Camus, Roth, Vonnegut, Salinger, and el Maestro himself, García Márquez. 

   I’ve noticed that when it comes to the arts there are two kinds of people: the majority who are satisfied to merely enjoy and appreciate creations of art, and a small minority who are not satisfied unless they create them themselves.[1]

   Whenever I read a great book, eat an excellent meal, see a beautiful work of art, or watch a good movie, my first reaction is not to read, eat, see or watch more. No, I find myself more often than not more eager to write a great book, to cook an excellent meal, to make a beautiful work of art, and, yes, to even direct a good movie myself. Obviously, someone must have dropped me on my head when I was an infant.

 


[1] Many, many, many years ago when I was leaving a “kegger” with a friend and somewhat disgruntled, I made the following drunk observation: “There’s the hippies. And there are people like us. And then there’s everyone else! Fuck ‘em!”

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