The following thoughts come from a recent reading, but of course, this last reading only opened the Pandora's box that was inside me. I happened to read a story by an American writer, whom I didn't know and who reminds me a lot of another American writer, Elizabeth Strout, who I read a lot for a certain amount of time when I was trying to tone down, to make smoother, my too abrasive style. I liked her story, I liked her style: fluffy, soft, sweet, melancholic and enveloping, encircling, enframing... But like the majority of anodyne writers is incapable to go beyond the surface in such a way that possibly can sometimes disturb or at least move the still water of many people's sentiments but doesn't upset at all, doesn't hurt, doesn't produce an inner crisis for which you are led to review, criticize and inspect, your vision of the world. It's kind of the common feature of those I call battery writers , like battery hens. Writers should goad their societies...
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