The summer of 91. The last exam had ended, and the vacations had begun. And so had my affair with the written word, again.
Back in the 90s, we ran a neighbourhood library (now you know how I managed to read so much) and access to so many books made me delirious at times:) But nothing beat the feeling of reading a book that had just come in – a novel that had not yet been read…in effect, breaking it in. And among my favorite authors was Frederick Forsyth.
I remember when The Fist of God was released in 94 – I must have read it from start to finish in a night. Such was( and is) the craze. He wrote a lot of thrillers, him, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, Alastair MacLean – they were the Tom Cruises of prose, making Missions Impossible over and over again. The focus I had when absorbed in these books – I have to practice that now. Something that came so naturally, and only because their flair for creating these worlds was unmatched.
Frederick Forsyth died today. A life that will live on through his novels. At least, I hope so.
To sample the diet of today, one has to just open up any news site and get swamped by tales of horror and death, the latest being (the saga) of a wife who conspired (and succeeded) to kill her husband on their honeymoon. This news item itself has over 10 articles on any given site, with interviews, analyses and viewpoints, harassing both the victim’s family and the hapless reader. What has news come to?
In other news (pun unintended), I re-started my much planned exercise and diet regime, and didn’t even realize it that much. Succeeded mainly because I didn’t make a hue-and-cry about it and just began – no fanfare, no plan, no target. One day at a time, one small improvement each day. And it does compound.
Maybe this is a good way to begin anything? Or to leave a bad habit? Do try it:)