Fiction, just fiction

For some reason, I avoid reading fiction, and that has nothing to do with using a dictionary, which I use anyway. It is as if either my reading tastes have changed or I fear something. But, if the latter is true, since the former seems a reckless momentary thought, then what do I fear? One example would be that I lack some cultural keys of the host culture, which do not allow me to use my present knowledge to open some doors. Oh yes, but that would be such a simple reason to get away with. Also, there is a hiatus of about nine years, just before I got back to university, during which I hardly read, and I know why. It was as if I was trying to become someone else in those years, but that did not work either.

 

Imagine struggling to clutch a timber float, as your sail is sinking—there is no way that you can think of art, or even ponder on philosophy of life. Even this picture is not totally true because it shows one bit of a long trail. After my ship sank, my timber float was sailing on a tranquil ocean, or, at least, it seemed that way, but my mind was playing, again and again, that image of my ship sinking. Yet, the float was drifting away without my knowing it… It was at that time when I uselessly attempted to take on a different persona: working and living like an automaton, wanting to forget about myself, mercilessly erasing my inner self. It just did not work—it never does, once you are aware of this, once you see that your boat is drifting away.

 

I will most likely go back to fiction, but need to discover an English-speaking writer, or perhaps just a few, whose writing style, choice of words, and theme, or themes, will get my attention on a track where it used to be in my native Romanian. My guess is that an anthology would be my first step.