So I was chatting with a new friend one week ago about books. Books are good. I suggest you try them out. Anyways we were talking about books, books we loved and why we loved them. Conversation ended, the night continued and I didn’t give it much more thought. For a while.
Last night I picked up Gravity’s Rainbow, flipped to a random page, absorbed the fibrous texture with my fingers and began the sumputous feast of print. Shit. I fogot how good this was. And then what happened? I began to think, speak and write with much more purpose, with metaphor and symbolic intent, making words into craft rather than utilitarian levers and cogs.
I’ve always been a better writer when I was reading. Call it resonance, or osmosis or feedback, but whatever it is its the essential oxygen of good creative force. To write well you need to be well read. To make good films it stands to reason one must drink in the cinema’s light and sound. My diet lately has been anything but wholesome, and that in part might just explain my mediocre attempts at art as of late. Shameful really.
So exposure to goodness, processing it and secreting it out as something new and unique. That’s a decent enough prescription for any kind of art don’t you think?