Manito

I think of Graham Swift on reading his books. Each protagonist, who is absolutely his fragment, separately tells me his/her gnawing in author’s own voice with different tones. Sometimes it seems comfortable to understand them, their inside, i.e. pieces of the writer’s mind. It seems easy now and then. But understandable I hold that, it might be an illusion or a fantasy. Perhaps I am not able to pierce him faithfully, but only deceived by my childlike perception. Childish or childlike, I appreciate him of making me so. In fact, arriving at my age, it is not easy to be truly innocent. It’s almost impossible, I know. Nevertheless, a certain naïve feeling—I cannot articulate it— comes over me and so I can dream remote dreams already forgotten. Something has been pulling out from my unconscious oblivion. Something from the rooted amnesia, whatever it was, is, and will be, I am possessed by it in the shadow of the dream. Absolutely snatched myself away! Even though dangerous, I seriously don’t want to take my mind back.

As for Graham, I love all of his writings. He deeply delves into the inside of human being, especially of a man. I can feel he doesn't lie. I cannot but love this English man. He is “[Englischer]menschliches, Allzu[Englischer]menschliches!” :) I often regard him as real. Of course he is alive and a real man, but not in my world here. I say real, with which mean that he’s my man in my real life. You think it’s ridiculous or I’m out of my mind. Yes, I’m out for him. I want to be out of my mind and step into his if I can share my time with him, whose bottom of inside I am eager to deeply dig into. I’m afraid I would scratch him with my dull spade, but even so I’ll go on. Someday I’d meet him, I want to, even though there can be no coming-and-going free-talking because of my poor English skill. It’d be no matter if I utter nothing. The words inside can overwhelm the words outside. He’ll able to know it definitely as I can.


Brit…