So you’ve somehow managed to stumble your way through the dense cyber-forest of click-bait, advertisements, and cat gifs to make it to my blog. My condolences.
Let’s begin with my potentially unwelcome honesty: I started a blog because, just like everyone else, I sometimes like to hear myself speak. However, I’ve come to find that in actual conversation, using recognizable words is not one of my strong points. The compromise? The written word.
I am what one might call a logophile. The sound, structure, and appearance of words makes me tingle with uninhibited delight. I thoroughly appreciate those artfully constructed sentences, whose strings of words seem to tumble onward and into place, subtly daring you to guess the next one before you have the chance to read it. Now, let’s be clear on something. I have never presumed, nor shall I ever, that I am capable of producing such written wonders. Instead, I intend to engage in some linguistic gymnastics, stretching myself, and my writing, over this blog. And my hope is that you, fair reader, might indulge my often embellished writing style to reach the heart of it, the meat and potatoes, the je ne sais quoi that is invariably present.
Simply put, I have the insatiable urge to write; it compels me at times, though I seldom have the excuse to act upon it. A true disappointment in life is to knowingly feel pleasure in a task, and yet never have the occasion to exploit it. Hence, the incarnation of this blog. As I implied before, I feel that blogging is, in essence, a rather selfish venture, whereby bloggers explore themselves first and foremost through the process of writing. Are there productive motives? Beneficial ones? I am no fool, of course there are. But the purpose of every blog is to be wrapped up in itself, a self-obsessed portrait of the personal interests and opinions of its author. However, the existence of such interests and opinions prior to the act of writing them down is, in a way, the Schrödinger’s cat of the writing world. The author is, more often than not, unaware of them before he sits down to bleed from his pen. After all, “the art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe,” – Gustave Flaubert.
You may have gleaned some insights from this, and you may not have. What I ask is that you patiently accompany me as I flit through the endless amount of topics that capture my mind. I will expound upon the finer points of everything from the virtues of grammar, to the pleasures of wine and food, and the sad state of global foreign policy. Until then, I remain,