If I Could Write . . .

I would of course be brilliant. I would be Zola reborn, I would be deep yet brief like Chekhov, I would be passionate and sparse like Steinbeck, I would be wide-ranging and evocative like Fast. There would be a hint of Byron in my irony and humour, the politics of Mary Ann Evans in my choice of subjects. I would not have the unbelievable circumstance of Hardy but choose rather the unremitting brutality of Hugo. I would want to capture the human condition as Thackery and Balzac, but leave readers with the delicate wisdom of Emily Dickenson.

At times the passion of Emily Bronte, at times the fluidity of Durrell. I would capture the instincts in a awkward moment like Singer and the beating heart of actions like Dostoyevsky. And after the pain I would soothe like Li Po, expound like Gandhi, entertain like Dickens and end with sending ripples of laughter and nods of agreement through my readers like MacNeice.

I would conjure like Cervantes and Lorca, touch depression like Solzenitskin  and lift the spirits like Moliere. If I could write I would have a touch of Shakespeare and a pinch of Jermiah and I would prophecy the human race into Shelley.

But I am me.