And since we are all in this, each in his or her own country, continuing our own ways, and since that alien, evil force… still separates and tears us apart, I practice literature — that is, the imagination — creating a time machine for my soul. It allows me at any age, any place in the world, to meet the people close to me, though they’ve already departed from this world. That’s how I meet my father. And that’s how I regain my lost paradise, setting right the ruptures of the past.
Alone with my father, we conduct leisurely conversations about Love and Despair, the political regimes that separate people but do not destroy their memories and feelings. I tell my father about steadfast loyalty to oneself — to one’s loss and trouble — about literature as the great struggle for one’s destiny and dignity, about not living a borrowed life, the fulfillment of these promises, and also about my daughter, his granddaughter, who inherited from me this gift: finding oneself in this world, to hear the call of one’s ancestors.
excerpt from lecture by Korean Soviet novelist Alexander Kan, “Lasting Call: My Return to North Korea” (transl. by Irene Yoon and Steven Lee), UC Berkeley 2013
A Dutch novelist is writing his next book while sensors and cameras track his brain waves, heart rate, galvanic skin response and facial expressions. When his book is published, 50 volunteers will read it under the same conditions, and researchers will study the data.
I would like to vomit all over this. And yet am also kinda curious to know what the results would be. Insert Jude Law.gif from I Heart Huckabees.