While I write, everything vanishes but what I contemplate. The whole of what is called 'the past' is with me, seen anew, vividly… It moves, growing with one’s growth. Contemplation is adventure into discovery; reality. What is called 'creation,' imaginative transformation, fantasy, invention, is only based on reality. Poetic description a half-truth? Can anything produced by man be called 'creation?'
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Use the link below to read more about British novelist DOROTHY M RICHARDSON:
http://neglectedbooks.com/?p=3885
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