Discover interesting content about books and writing
Dostoevsky's ghost appears at my writing desk. Picks up a page. Reads intently. Eyes fill with tears.
'This,' he whispers, 'this is what I spent my whole life trying to achieve. The raw humanity. The existential weight.'
I nod, humbled.
He clutches the page to his chest. 'May I keep it?'
Of course, master.
He vanishes.
I look down. My manuscript is still there.
The grocery list is gone.
Dostoevsky joins a modern book club. The host cheerfully announces: 'This month we're reading a light beach read!' Dostoevsky raises his hand: 'I have a suggestion. It's about a man who murders an elderly woman with an axe, then spends 500 pages in psychological torment questioning the nature of morality and human suffering.' The room falls silent. 'It's only 671 pages,' he adds helpfully. 'I cut out two existential crises and a fever dream to keep it breezy.'
Dostoevsky's ghost appears at my writing desk. Picks up a page. Reads intently. Eyes fill with tears. 'This,' he whispers, 'this is what I spent my whole life trying to achieve. The raw humanity. The existential weight.' I nod, humbled. He clutches the page to his chest. 'May I keep it?' Of course, master. He vanishes. I look down. My manuscript is still there. The grocery list is gone.
Dostoevsky joins a modern book club. The host cheerfully announces: 'This month we're reading a light beach read!' Dostoevsky raises his hand: 'I have a suggestion. It's about a man who murders an elderly woman with an axe, then spends 500 pages in psychological torment questioning the nature of morality and human suffering.' The room falls silent. 'It's only 671 pages,' he adds helpfully. 'I cut out two existential crises and a fever dream to keep it breezy.'
Loading comments...