I read first book of Lord of the Rings when I was about 18 or 19 years. I told the first book, yes… cause I didn’t want to read more. I don’t like fantasy stories and I don’t like imaginary worlds because I write about fantasy and imaginary words. When I became a writer, I began to hate books. That’s a paradox but I think I am not the only one. Joyce said that and many others did the same. I am working with words all day and at night, I don’t want to take a book. I continue reading, of course, but I read just to document my works or if I need it. For pleasure? No, and it’s a real pity that I’ve lost the pleasure of reading. I loved books when I was young. In one year I think I’ve read more than one hundred books and, now, I can only see literary structures and I can only read the secret lines, the darkest side of this world of words and fantasies.
Now I see movies and I don’t like complicated Swedish films. And yes, I loved Bergman when I was 14 but now I love movies with jokes and nothing to think. In fact, I’ve even directed a short movie adapting the Kafka’s novels the Trial and the unfinished The Castle.
But I loved books the best. I liked experimental works and everything that sound to my master in those days (Joyce). I loved to learn and I loved to look for the secret rooms into the secret structures of Borges, Faulkner, Stevenson and so many names that influences me but I tried to forget later. I tried it, I really tried it. Trying to forget and trying to remember and, finally, trying to steal, making their words mine.
I learned secrets and I learned how to make a novel. No, I didn’t go to any literary course or something similar. I learned with the classics: Victor Hugo and Tolstoy and Proust… I don’t like him very much but I have still some neurons containing brilliant information about the author of A la Recherché de Temps Perdu. I read Dostoyevsky too but I preferred The Karamazov Brothers to Crime and Punishment. Years after reading it, Dostoyevsky inspired me to write A Century of Ashes. And I loved something more than novels: I loved essays talking about novels and books talking about other books that talked about books and booking and all kind of words that I’ve forgotten in my memories.
And I lost it! I sacrificed reading for writing and, in that long way to no country, I lost the happiness of books, the sleeping happy silent of a plenty word, the fury and the sounds of characters, the eternal sin of the eternal and ethereal mist. I know the feeling that remains when you do it, when you can create a world and, in the last page of the novel, you destroy it all for the readers, giving readers a non-gift, giving them a part of the souls, now, are ours, to readers and writers… waiting for some day that maybe never comes, the day one reader will open your book and begin the story.
Again and again.