Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Look at that by - (read ebook pdf .txt) 📖
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- Lack of what, the reader will justifiably ask.
- Well, if the reader is not concentrating, there’s no way to get the fact that they were both wor-rying over the lack of the lack. Of the desire of sex the one, of writing, the other.
So that he didn’t lose the hang of it, is probably better.
Simos Panopoulos - Look at that
142
resembled a dish made out of different kinds of left-overs that would be a sin to throw away. A dish that on top of everything else, want to or not, you had to eat up till the end.
From a quantitative point of view now, this time last year, go figure, his coming to the village, the abun-dance of stimuli, the fresh air, the nature, the iodine of the sea, the swimming, the carefreeness of holi-daymaking had all unexpectedly doped him up, so much that within a week he had written as much as it had taken him more than a month to do in the city. So, at night, he would forthwith go to bed with a text on his side that he never would have imagined when he had got up that very morning. This year, conversely, his departure from the city, the scarcity of inputs in the village, the swimming, the summer sluggishness, the comings and goings, the iodine of the sea that seemed to almost drug him, had unex-pectedly slowed him down, so much that his entire harvest up until that morning did not exceed even one fourth of all that in the city he would churn out in the space of a quarter of an hour. Therefore, the following text – not even half a page long – would be on his bedside when he woke up in the morning and went to bed at night:
Simos Panopoulos - Look at that
143
“In his upgrade, generally, from the status of a bud-ding writer to that of a not-yet newly-appeared one, the understanding that writing, in the end, was a race
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