I have often been described* as a narcicist. Indeed, for Valentine’s Day I got my girlfriend a picture. To imply that picture was of me would be accurate.
However, I’m probably reading too much into signs that might nudge me towards that conclusion. It’s probably a side effect of the paranoia induced by reading too much Philip K Dick whilst growing up. Probably.
The fact is this – I struggle to consume most things literate without concurrently thinking about my own application of the principle or the content. I was reading Lucio’s Confession earlier, and upon reading a certain passage thought of its aptness for inclusion in a magical presentation.
The majority of my reviews on this blog tail off with a reflection on how the work will influence my own writing. This is partially affected – it’s something that sets this blog apart, that it uniquely offers insight on how novels and stories and plays and paintings will affect my own writing. It provides a reason for you to read my review over anyone else’s. In that sense it’s self-publicising. But also, I imagine it’s a symptom of my perceived narcicism.
As is this.