But of course he and all the sad ghosts haunting that gloomy fen were nothing more than a story. Figments born from the imagination of some writer who lived and breathed in my own world. It is the author himself who truly lives on in the spirit of his creation. Who was he, I wonder? What pain could have driven him to write this tale?
Isn't this what makes reading addictive? The multidimensional aspect of story, theme, and the writer's personal history and life experience?
