Writer - He and I

W. Somerset Maugham, Preface to Collected stories Volume 2 -

There is a point I want to make about these stories. The reader will notice that many stories are written in the first person singular. That is a literary convention which is as old as hills... Its object is of course to achieve credibility, for when someone tells you what he states has happened to himself you are more likely to believe that he is telling the truth than when he tells you what happened to somebody else. It has besides a merit from storyteller’s point of view that he need only tell you what he knows for a fact and can leave to your imagination what he doesn’t know or couldn’t know. ........But the I who writes is just as much a character in story as the other persons with whom it is concerned. He may be the hero or he may be an onlooker or a confidant. But he is a character. The writer who uses this device is writing fiction and if he makes the I of his story a little quicker on the uptake, a little more level headed, a little wittier, a little wiser than he, the writer, really is, the reader must show indulgence. He must remember that author is not drawing a faithful portrait of himself, but creating a character for the particular purpose of his story.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the underground -

The author of these Notes, and Notes themselves, are both, of course, imaginary. All the same, if we take into consideration the conditions that have shaped our society, people like the writer not only may, but must, exist in society. I have tried to present to the public in a more striking form than is usual a character belonging to the very recent past, a representative figure from a generation still surviving.

Franz Kafka on being a writer, "Letter to Max Brod." (Qtd. in Corngold 73) –

But what is to be a writer? Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward but its price? During the night the answer was transparently clear to me. It is a reward for the service to devil. This descent to the dark powers, the unbinding of spirits by nature bound, dubious embraces and whatever else may go on below, of which one no longer knows anything above ground, when in the sunlight one writes stories. Perhaps there is another kind of writing, I know only this one; in the night, when anxiety does not let me sleep, I know only this.

Air Pressure!!

There are two types of silence in this world. One, in which you hear nothing. stillness. The other is in which you hear every one's voice, whispering, all around you. It is quite similar to passive smoking. You inhale everyone's suggestions, ideas, advices, quarrels, love troubles. All types of stories mix up with your own as you try to turn page of that stupid '100 ways to do something great' book that you picked at the airport because your boss wanted you to read it, most probably because that was the only book he had read after becoming your boss.

I was seated somewhere in middle of that airplane. The blinding glare of right wing had already compelled me to half close the shutter of that small window. There was not much to see outside of that window anyway. I have always observed that clouds are more interesting from ground than they are from 30000ft. While I am looking up at them they fuse and diffuse into all kinds of shape but while looking down I just find white sea, shapeless.

There was nothing much interesting inside the plane too. To my left was an ugly mulatto girl who was feigning sleep just to crawl over me every now and then. This was also the reason I had kept the window shutter half open, so that I can direct my attention outward whenever the need arises.

The air hostesses were also a disappointing lot. They were the reason I had picked up this airplane for travel, even though fare was a bit over reimbursable limit according to my company policy. Their brochure flaunted many blondes in red dress. Hope, of a madman, to spot at least one desirable woman among this crowd had clouded my decision. In reality, most of these hostess girls were in their early twenties. They wore white shirts, red skirt and some of them had red jackets on. All of them had small firm breasts, their skin tanned and hair pulled back. Maybe as a teenager I would have found them attractive but somehow today I did not.

So as this relatively boring flight, attained relatively boring height a not so unusual fear grew inside me. What if we were to hit a bird (or superman) and explode in sky? If I were to imagine such a situation while lying on my bed, as I presently am, I would have definitely thought like this - "How will I be remembered if I died? How will people whom I love feel? will they be able to live without me? Oh my God, I don't want to die". However, at 30000ft none of this occurred to me. Somehow, this fear elevated my desperation to find a "desirable" woman, whom I could hold tightly as the plane explodes.

My brilliant thought process was suddenly interrupted by an explosion of another kind. It seems that the lunch served by the undesirable hostess wasn't well accepted by my stomach. As this monstrous metallic bird dived in and out of the clouds, the frequent explosions inside resulted in frothing outside. Now, before any of my ugly co travellers could acknowledge this by sound or smell, I had to run to the toilet. Yes! The seatbelt sign was on. If I go down with pale face, the hostess would not trouble me with questions but the source of unpleasant scent would be well established in the plane. So I walked up to the toilet door, with my little finger scratching inside of my ear - as if air pressure has numbed by hearing senses. The hostess was also too lazy (undesirable) to shout more than once. I slowly turned the little handle and I was inside. Heaven!