Yeah, I remember. It was the 12th of September, on a lazy morning following a quite long journey from one continent to another. Starting a new life. Having crossed eight time zones. Reeling from jet lag. Not remembering where I was. My head hurt. My eyes were rolling. With one eyelid still shut, I check my Inbox (1).
(…) I am sending you my newest manuscript. Please forgive the minor editing problems (…)
I close my eye and try to awake the other. I let it slip down the screen towards the attached file. I save it, open it, and here it was: a magnificent piece of writing. I would love to wake up and read it. I have got a nice PDF file on my desktop now. What do I do? What time is it? Where am I? Is this French? I look again, smile and check the length. 401 pages. Whooooooaaahhh…That is…well…I mean…whoooah…I would not notice any editing problems, I thought.
A book on art and architecture, on symbols and rhythms. Written out of pure passion, without university grants, cultural foundation grants, academic salaries or governmental support, written before having even started the PhD, written because it had to be written, this book is now being awarded the World Prize for The Book of the Year. Check again for details. And of course, a book review. Congratulations !
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