Pathetic. Catering to the lost, whose lives have turned out anything but what they expected, and selling them a lie of the past. The past is done! There is no past! There are no second chances!
Only a continuous instant of first ones.
She shook her head. "No, I don't read fiction, it's fantasy, playacting, and does nothing for me." //authors note- I have heard people say that.
//another note- I'm using C++/C#/Java comments in prose. I've been at this too long.
He frowned, "You poor dear, I'm so sorry!" She looked puzzled and he continued, glancing at the stack of books before her. "Those... those manuals, guides for living, guides for decorating, writing, programming, all hope for what? To give you a piece of yourself? To improve you?
"Fiction can do that, because fiction and the human soul have one thing in common- neither one is real. The pretty lies and stories of fiction resonate with the pretty myth of a soul, of a self, of a being. Am I real? Am I more real than Hamlet? Than Batman?"
She pursed her lips. "Yes. Now stop being fecicious."