BOOKS come unfinished, in threes at least, once a week. It is in identifying myself with the characters that I realize that somehow, a book is ugly. I oftentimes find myself driven to answer the questions hidden between the lines, and often failing to arrive at a conclusion after the last page. The characters live in the mind, and they grow into you like some neophyte ‘you’. Sometimes I wish I could kill it right then and there. Give me a longer time digesting the words, and I will find myself speaking in the author’s tone; that absorption disappoints me greatly – I want to use my own words, speak my own language, play around with my own thoughts. In a way, books pollute me. I can only win the game by jumping from one author to the other.
