Anton Chekov says:”A novelist is not a human being answering questions. Rather, he is one asking questions.”
During my 6-year-long education at two separate English Literature Departments, I had read a number of literary works. I was not an avid bookworm at the time, ironically. I hated the fact that I had no other books to read other than those picked by the faculty. Lecturers had the unshaken authority to select works my classmates and I had to read and later analyze as assignments. I missed my literary independence as a reader. That was what I felt though I was fully aware that I was there to study, not to spend my spare time at a laid-back free course open for any literature enthusiasts at a book club. I was not quite good at becoming a part of an institution. I loathe that bound, tied sensation.
As I perused all these thick books, not all were captivating enough to satisfy my literary taste.I read Ernest Hemingway’s works but very little could I relate myself to the entire or partial part of the story or character. I shunned wars, blood but Papa seemed to be so interested in telling such a horrifying theme. Soldiers, guns, shots, sentinels, stop it. And I closed the book and made up my mind,go find a review of its chapters on the web and the problem got solved.
But throughout my reading so far, I concluded there is no solution offered in any literary works. They just explain the essence of reality, unfold another perspective, tell different point of view, or enrich what is known widely to public. No answer is given. And because maybe there might not be any.