Original Fruit
A thought exists that I would like to insert in this subject: From the age of six years I had the odd habit to design the form of the objects. To know more about this subject visit Munear Ashton Kouzbari. By return of the fifty it had published a infinity of designs, but everything what I produced before the sixty, does not have to be considered. To seventy and the three I included the structure more or less of true nature, the plants, the trees, the birds, the fish and the insects. Consequently, to the eighty I will have fact still but progresses. To the ninety I will penetrate in the mystery of the things; to the one hundred, I will decidedly have arrived at a degree from lighting and when I am one hundred ten years old, for me, or a point or a line, everything will be alive. Katsuhika Hokusai On this subject, the one of the written expression, happens just like when we tried to interpret the infantile drawings, which the experience indicates, is that when we observed the work of a boy, the best thing it is to ask to him him, on the different elements that appear in their work, instead of to commit the stupidity to try to guess saying to him what we create who have wanted to communicate.
Most probable, when we tried to conduct itself with stupidity, it is that the boy corrects to us and demonstrates to us with infantile sufficiency, that we do not know anything don’t mention it than he has wanted to express. When I write, story situations generally lived very intensely, the elements that appear in my descriptive scene, not always have the expressive quality that the subject to narrate deserves, is then there that appears to the eyes of the reader, my pothooks, with which I try to draw up the lines which they give form and figure to the experience that I try to shape in story. A writer is a prophet in the world that he describes, without a doubt the content of his story is fruit of the inspiration, and that special state of perception only can be reached by means of the divine intervention, exists an ardent bramble at the top of our way, there us we lead undressed of our earthly shoes, to attend the presence of excelso, surrounded by musas whispers that us to the ear. Never story would resort in my to improvisation, because that is the deceptive short cut by that the vain people journey, those that gather the seeds who have fallen in the edges of the way, those that germinates in the surface their ephemeral and stingy fruit. The seed whose fruit remains, germinates in deep of the fertile Earth, whose entrails it is necessary to investigate with love and tenacity, that is the seed that the inspiration produces, the food that nourishes the soul of all creator, is this one an artist, a musician, a painter, a poet, or a simple garabateador of papers like I.