Post by account_disabled on Dec 24, 2023 5:28:03 GMT
I've wanted to write this article for a long time. There are privileged writers in the world, because I don't think it's an entirely Italian situation . Writers who publish with extreme ease. But not for their writing skills. Because they are famous . The so-called VIPs - who are important, these people, you can't understand - publish books by entering a publishing house through the back door. In my opinion, in fact, some publishers contact them on purpose, offering to write something. The latest to publish is a pseudo-prince who can't even speak, who among other things is not his first publication. Before him there were valets and presenters stuffed with silicone, showmen, criminals, even.
The book, in these cases, is not seen as both a cultural and commercial product, but only as a commercial product. Because there is not even a shadow of culture in those books. Literature enters the service of money, of advertising. The publishing house takes on the fame of the published public figure – the play on words is necessary here. Wear his clothes. It even smells like him. Who buys the books of privileged writers? And you, how many did you buy? No one answered, but I heard voices shouting and a Special Data great commotion coming from the bridge. I staggered out of my cabin – the sea must have risen quite a bit – and went up on deck. I will never forget what I saw. We were in the Indian Ocean, within sight of Rakata Island and the Krakatau volcano, when I went down to the cabin to start writing. Now I could see clearly what had caused the explosion.
An eruption never seen before. Krakatau seemed to have become the mouth of hell. The Sea Meteor was pitching terribly, my men were down and some were injured. The sky was turning the color of tar and, even from afar, I could distinguish the red of the lava and the clouds of ash rising in a gigantic black column.That's when he understands. He has already gone back many times in his life, back to write unread stories that would pile up on top of each other without generating readers. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void.
The book, in these cases, is not seen as both a cultural and commercial product, but only as a commercial product. Because there is not even a shadow of culture in those books. Literature enters the service of money, of advertising. The publishing house takes on the fame of the published public figure – the play on words is necessary here. Wear his clothes. It even smells like him. Who buys the books of privileged writers? And you, how many did you buy? No one answered, but I heard voices shouting and a Special Data great commotion coming from the bridge. I staggered out of my cabin – the sea must have risen quite a bit – and went up on deck. I will never forget what I saw. We were in the Indian Ocean, within sight of Rakata Island and the Krakatau volcano, when I went down to the cabin to start writing. Now I could see clearly what had caused the explosion.
An eruption never seen before. Krakatau seemed to have become the mouth of hell. The Sea Meteor was pitching terribly, my men were down and some were injured. The sky was turning the color of tar and, even from afar, I could distinguish the red of the lava and the clouds of ash rising in a gigantic black column.That's when he understands. He has already gone back many times in his life, back to write unread stories that would pile up on top of each other without generating readers. But what is a story if it doesn't have a reader? It is a silent reality imprisoned in unconsciousness. He doesn't even notice it. The legs move on their own and you see yourself flying over the unknown void.