Lament
What a curse. What happens when one reads an amazingly written book? Imagine, readers, a novel, imbued with an intrinsic, pervasive sense of dignified composure proceeding from its meticulous sentences, its prose restful in its exactitude and brimming with deft, beautifully twisted words. Imagine a novel, refreshingly free of descriptive overload, yet detailed enough to evoke images as clear as new glass and mountain air. Imagine a novel richly immense in scope; yet, its lines unerringly unperturbed by the vastness of its own content. What happens then?
Yes, one rapidly discovers that nothing in one's portfolio of writings matches up to it, becomes severely depressed, and spends half an hour writing and rewriting a blog entry.
I am not this "one", honestly.
(Lies, heinous lies).