I think of my literary friends who have died. Their works have suffered the same fate that they have. When they were alive, together, we spoke together, what we wrote and we said and what we read had a oneness. We had a respect for the solitude we had when we read good writing.
We did not talk to each other outside of knowing we were writers.
Those of us who are alive did not realize that we would live in a world where that respect did not exist and would be misunderstood anyway.
We had no concept about the future.
“More people are reading now than ever,” silly people say. It’s like saying that more people know about the American revolution now than when the revolution took place. I miss that literary world and don’t want to be part of one that is counterfeit.
The weaknesses of the profession took over, like a disease and “writing” became something less than information.
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James P. White
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