Virginia Woolf, “The Art of Fiction”:
‘That fiction is a lady, and a lady who has somehow got herself into trouble, is a thought that must have often struck her admirers. Many gallant gentlemen have
ridden to her rescue…But [they], one felt, had a great deal of knowledge about
her, but not much intimacy with her. Now comes Mr Forster…’
Writing, in other words, is above all for communication – for conveying ideas and feelings from one’s mind to another mind. Apart from a few oddities. While digressing, Literature, in itself, is an arabesque version of a timeless language; which had seemed to transcend through the very portals of time, delivering to one the piquant peaks of the Historical Commodity, usage, of different eras.
Words, however, seemed to come to life, upon the compelling use in fiction tales, that would be thoroughly enjoyed; as it appealed to one’s keen sense of arts and languages – the desire to daydream, and stay as a chimerical Lilliputian(or so, I feel).
I’m writing this at an impulse, the very purpose, I’m still unsure of. Least to say, probably my fervid action towards etymology .
Its only words, and words are all you need, to reach the entrance to my heart.
But that is just my opinion.
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