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256 pages, Paperback
First published July 1, 2019
For many years now I longed to burrow into the mass of humanity and form intimate connections, but I couldn't change myself and nor could the world. It was like with my pets - I didn't want to go out so they developed a cough; they got fleas and I ended up annoyed. In the end we always part ways. Writing fiction is different. My characters might loathe me, they might find me hard to live with, but they're my creations and so they have to accept their fate. I create their universe, I provide the blood that flows through their veins and the hair that sprouts on their heads. When I offer up a world I've created, other people read it and imagine they've learned something about me, but they're probably way off base. They think reading my work brings us closer, but I'm the one who gets to determine the distance between us. Sure, this means I end up living like a prisoner, but everything has a price, and no matter what, your life is going to get used up. That's probably what Schopenhauer meant when he said we live to keep from dying, we walk to keep from falling over.