Today there was one of the short moments, flashes, when in the heavy everyday's crust, in the multiplicity of activities and affairs, suddenly a self-acting breach appears – and I feel the art happening. It is when I notice the common points between Jeanette Winterson and Haruki Murakami; the cohesion, the real density of the thoughts. It is when the sky grows full of expression to remain in a close relation with the humanistic belief in the causative power of the human; in the human creativity; imagination; love. The pure cream of thoughts. And there's a dream to hold the breach, to capture the moment. To describe it?
Also, I've come to a conclusion that my favorite reoccurring element in the V. Woolf's "Diary" is the phrase "and so on". The greatest power of a writer: a few sketches of a state, a situation, some emotions, so that the reader feels it to the bones – and then "and so on" comes, hiding things... so precise, specific; both sides know what kind of substance it is. Precision, precision. J. Winterson, V. Woolf.
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