Member-only story
The Quiet Rebel
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The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.
~ Albert Camus
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A true writer does not merely craft sentences — they hold a mirror to humanity’s conscience. In times of decay or delusion, the writer becomes the quiet rebel, reminding us of truths we’ve buried, and possibilities we’ve forgotten. They are not entertainers of the moment, but stewards of memory, warning lights against collective amnesia.
~ Diwakar Bhardwaj
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To accept that such or whatever being, who we loved, has died. Accept that this or that being is nothing but a dead person among millions of dead. Accept that this or that one, alive, have had their weaknesses, their lownesses, their errors, that we try in vain to cover with pious lies, a little out of respect and compassion for them, much out of compassion for ourselves, and by the vainglory of having loved only perfection, the intelligence or beauty.
Accept their independence from the dead, not chain them, poor shadows, to our chariot of the living. Accept that they died before their time because time doesn’t exist. Accepting our forgetfulness, for forgetting is part of the order of things. Accept our recollection, for in secret memory hides in the depths of oblivion.
