Chapter 119

                                    

                                          

Hans Christian Andersen was remembered primarily as a prolific writer of fairy tales and written stories.
Secondly, though only known to people who interacted with Hans personally, for his bilious and quarrelsome character. Which leads logically to the fact the second point was reliably made aware of to very few people. In other words, a very limited circle of people were aware of his character as a person, while many more people were aware of his creations.
And therefore it was not so difficult to reason out why Hans' temporary dwelling was filled to the brim with a significant number of books. Some books that he still loved to re-read, lots of books that he really regrets reading to the end due to his curiosity and several large piles of unfinished manuscripts.
Still, it was impossible to separate the two facets of Andersen. Hans's writing talent and his petty, absurd character. And therefore, while bending over another manuscript for a prospective story, Hans did not think about how he would perfectly finish his current work.
Instead, Hans Christian Andersen's thoughts were much more prosaic.
"This is complete shit." Hans grimaced at what he had written.
In its very essence, every book, in addition to the primitive textual component - beginning, middle, and end - has a mental and sensory component.
In every book there is a protagonist, there is a character, there is an image, there is a thought, there is a question and an answer.
Hans' current story contained everything a normal story would need. Names, characters, events, images, and all the ingredients that would make a story. All but the most important thing was missing.
The question and the answer. The conflict and the resolution. The most important essence of a story.
Hans believed that there was a question in this book, but it's not one that is answered. It was a question the author asked of his own creation.
What for?
What is the reason for the characters' actions? Such a question has been answered in the text. An endeavour easily accomplished by a writer of Hans' caliber.
What reasons do the characters' have to seek their goals? This, of course, was also planned in advance and answered in the text. A paltry exercise in imagination and planning, child's play to one such as Hans.
Why did the author write this book? Hans pursed his lips. Unfortunately, he did not have an easy answer.
He was not touched or moved by a single line from his current endeavour. The characters did not touch his soul. Their motivations, threadbare. Their struggle, monotonous. The plot and their twists did not delight him. The prose, insipid. The twists, guileless. Worst of all, the silly puns and the jokes in the text did not make him laugh.
Taken in its totality, fundamentally, Hans' current endeavour was a waste of time. And the book, written aimlessly and emotionlessly, in the end, was not only meaningless, but also harmful in its essence. It is a verbal stream of manure splashed into reality, spoiling the paper, which could be used in any other, much more rewarding activity.
Hans' pen froze in the air, hanging over the manuscript in hesitation.
Should he cross out the last few pages completely? Cross those uninspired pages with an ugly black cross, and then write new ones? Perhaps if he were to do so he would be able to find the spark in what exactly he lacked in his creation? Or, perhaps, it was worth it on the contrary, to continue what on? Hoping that the blind creative pursuit in the end will give him the divine spark that will give his creation life?