A person reads fiction to decipher one's inner world. The same impulse compels the writer to create. Books are like maps. They chart the terrain of a writers inner world. And, naturally, humans, being rather cunning animals, seek out texts that align as accurately as possible with our own inner world. Do you too find the books you like the most could've been written by a closely associated second self? But, what is of primary interest to us all in books are the uncharted territories of the unconscious. A place where brave writers with lofty souls have painstakingly beaten paths of mud deep into the heart of the collective unconscious. But a reader can never be fully satisfied with the books, maps and paths of another. No matter how close a writers map resembles one's own, it always falls short, remaining distinctly foreign with crucial parts missing. It is the fate of the reader, if they turn writer, to beat their own ruddy path into the blackened forest of the unconscious, and bring back insights for others, who have not yet embarked on such a hair-raising journey. Dostoevsky was a voracious reader who became a brilliant writer. I doubt he was an exception.
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