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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 17

I was poking around on the gallery on my phone and found this

It was the rear of the club house for a golf course that was adjacent to the resort we were staying at before COVID shut down the country and all travel.

It was a bleak day with rain falling from drizzle to a heavy shower, and I had to wonder what it would be like on a fine summer’s day.

The club house also had space for conventions and weddings, and I could imaging having the wedding in the rotunda as the the sun departed leaving behind shades of yellow, orange and red.

Having a fountain in the wedding photo would be so hard to take either.

Perhaps we could renew our vows one day in just such a location.

It’s a thought.

…

But as for a story…

…

It’s a bleak day with constant drizzle, the sort of day to fuel introspection.

A day to spend in front of a fire with a good book instead of chasing a white ball. The thing is, you never quite know when the weather is going to interfere with the best laid plans.

A week before, the forecast was for clear skies, and perfect blue skies.

Jake was going to meet up with some very influential people on the golf course to discuss business. It was not the sort of business that was conducted indoors, in a conference room, or an office.

But the weather was not going to play ball.

As the murky darkness dawned into a grey soggy morning with constant irritating drizzle, Jake was looking out the window of his room that overlooked the parkland when there was a knock on the door.

There was no way anyone was playing golf in this weather, so he was hoping it was his assistant with the alternate arrangements.

It was the assistant, but with a look of disappointment on her face.

“What news?” he asked.

“McDonald’s PA just called. He had a heart attack last night, and just died.”

…

Is this the beginning of the end?

What I learned about writing – You can lose track of what day it is

I used to like Saturdays, it was the first day of the weekend, and after working Monday through Friday, one could sleep in, have a leisurely breakfast, and then do the shopping.

Then there’s the reality.

Body clocks are dreadful, and never let you sleep in if, in fact, it’s bright daylight shining through the curtains at 5am.  Blackout curtains never seem to quite work.

Shutters are marginally better.

Once awake it is difficult to get back to sleep, so you lie in bed staring at the ceiling or partake in monitoring social media.

I read the latest in the New York Times, online.  Some days I wish I didn’t.

But…

Yes, there’s always a but…

I can, at times, go through the plotline of the latest story in my head, and if it’s boring, it puts me to sleep, and if it’s not, I head to the writing room and start putting it down.

Until notifications start distracting me.

Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Linked In, Tumblr, and Instagram.

News headlines, the world is ending, or close enough, a car accident is causing traffic delays even though I’m not going out, yet another school shooting massacre in the USA, and my crossword for the day has arrived.

Why can’t the computer make me coffee, and toast and marmalade?

From 6am to 9am shot to hell, not a word on paper, perhaps I should go back to bed.

I remember Saturdays before computers, before social media, before any of those modern distractions.

What is referred to, these days, as the good old days!

 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 281

Day 281 – Why great novels are more intelligent than their authors

…

Why Great Novels Are Smarter Than Their Authors: Unpacking Milan Kundera’s Bold Literary Claim

“Great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors. Novelists who are more intelligent than their books should go into another line of work.” — Milan Kundera

At first glance, Milan Kundera’s famous assertion sounds paradoxical, if not entirely unfair. After all, how can a creation outsmart its creator? Surely the architect of the plot, the master of the vocabulary, and the orchestrator of the themes must possess a greater intellect than the collection of bound paper they produce.

Yet, when we look closely at the mechanics of great literature—from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Virginia Woolf and Kundera himself—this provocative quote rings profoundly true.

In this deep dive into the philosophy of fiction, we will explore what Kundera meant, why brilliant essayists often fail as novelists, and how the act of writing fiction taps into a collective wisdom that surpasses conscious thought.

1. The Novel as an Autonomous Entity

When a novelist sits down to write, they aren’t merely executing a pre-calculated mathematical formula. If a book is completely mapped out, controlled, and micro-managed by the author’s conscious intellect, it usually turns out stiff, predictable, and didactic.

Great novels, however, take on a life of their own. Characters begin to make choices that surprise even their creators. Subplots take unexpected turns. The thematic undercurrents evolve beyond the original outline.

As the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur noted, once a text is written, it escapes the author’s absolute control. It enters the public domain of interpretation, interacting with history, psychology, and philosophy in ways the author could never have fully anticipated. In this sense, the novel’s “intelligence” lies in its capacity to hold contradictory truths simultaneously—a feat that often overwhelms the author’s everyday, linear logic.

2. Why “Smart” Authors Often Write Bad Novels

Kundera’s warning—that novelists smarter than their books should change professions—is a direct jab at the intellectual who uses fiction merely as a vehicle for propaganda or philosophical lecturing.

When an author’s ego and intellect dominate the narrative, the book becomes a thesis statement in disguise. We see this in heavy-handed didactic literature where characters exist merely to spout the author’s political, moral, or philosophical views. There is no mystery, no moral ambiguity, and no room for discovery.

Conversely, a truly great novelist sets up a laboratory of human behaviour and steps back. They allow their characters to genuinely disagree with one another, embodying complex worldviews without tipping the scales.

  • Fyodor Dostoevsky was deeply conservative and religious, yet his novels (The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment) give voice to brilliant, devastating arguments against faith through characters like Ivan Karamazov. Dostoevsky the man may have had a definitive worldview, but Dostoevsky the novelist created a text smart enough to transcend his own biases.

3. Intuition vs. Intellect: The Unconscious Depth of Fiction

Human consciousness is limited. We are bound by our blind spots, our prejudices, and the constraints of rational thought. But art taps into something deeper: the collective unconscious, intuition, and emotional resonance.

When writing fiction, an author often channels truths they do not yet fully understand in their waking life. They might write a tragic character arc or a toxic relationship dynamic, only to realise years later that it mirrored an unresolved aspect of their own psyche.

In this light, the book knows things about the author that the author doesn’t yet know about themselves. The novel is smarter because it operates on a multi-dimensional plane of metaphors, symbols, and human empathy, bypassing the rigid gatekeepers of the conscious ego.

4. The Novel as an Inquiry, Not an Answer

Milan Kundera believed that the specific wisdom of the novel is ambiguity. In a world obsessed with fast answers, dogmas, and certainty, the novel exists to question.

If a novelist is “too intelligent” in the sense of being overly certain, dogmatic, and keen to provide neat moral conclusions, the book suffers. The best novels leave us with more questions than answers. They invite the reader into a co-creation of meaning.

Think of Franz Kafka’s The Trial or Albert Camus’s The Stranger. These books do not offer neat solutions to the absurdity of existence. Instead, they map out the labyrinth with such breathtaking clarity and depth that the books outlive the cultural moments in which they were written, continuously generating new insights for new generations of readers.

Final Thoughts: The Humility of the True Writer

Kundera’s quote is, ultimately, an ode to literary humility. It reminds writers that their job is not to play God or act as an all-knowing professor imparting wisdom to the masses.

Instead, the novelist is an explorer. They set sail into the vast, murky waters of human experience, charting territories they cannot fully map. If the journey is successful, the resulting book will return with treasures the captain didn’t even know existed—proving that the greatest stories are always wiser than the hands that wrote them.

What are your thoughts on Kundera’s quote? Can you think of a book that feels infinitely wiser than its author’s public persona? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Venice

The Unbeaten Path: 5 Hidden Treasures in Venice (That Aren’t St. Mark’s)

Venice. The name alone conjures images of shimmering canals, graceful gondolas, and the architectural masterpiece that is the Doge’s Palace. It is, undeniably, one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

But let’s be honest: the magic can quickly evaporate when you’re battling a thousand other tourists just to get a photo of the Rialto Bridge.

The true, deep magic of Venice—the one that smells of salt-laced air and centuries of history—isn’t found on the main tourist arteries. It’s found in the quiet, echoing calle (streets) and the forgotten, sun-drenched squares of the districts that rarely make the postcard racks.

If you’re ready to trade the packed piazza for unique local discoveries, ditch the map of the standard tourist loop. Here are five essential, off-the-beaten-path things to do in Venice that will give you a taste of the city’s authentic heart.

1. Swap Grand Palaces for the Cemetery Island: Isola di San Michele

While most visitors focus on Murano or Burano, the island of San Michele offers a profound and beautiful experience few tourists seek out. This is the official cemetery island of Venice, and it offers a silence and solitude that is impossible to find on the main islands.

A short vaporetto ride (Line 4.1 or 4.2) across the lagoon transports you to a walled sanctuary where cypress trees stand sentinel over generations of Venetians, including famous residents like Igor Stravinsky and Ezra Pound.

Why it’s worth the detour: The stunning, stark beauty of the Renaissance Chiesa di San Michele in Isola, combined with the meticulously maintained gardens and marble tombs, offers a reflective pause in your itinerary. It truly feels like stepping into a different world—one without shops, crowds, or noise. It’s a poignant reminder of the ebb and flow of Venetian life.

2. Embrace the Bacaro Trail in Dorsoduro

If you want to eat and drink like a Venetian, you must embrace the bacaro culture. A bacaro is a traditional, often hole-in-the-wall Venetian bar specializing in cicchetti (small, tapas-style snacks) and ombra (a small glass of local wine).

While you can find bacari near the main spots, the Dorsoduro district, particularly near Ca’ Foscari University, is where the scene is truly vibrant and local. This area is filled with students and residents, not tour groups.

How to do it right: Forget sitting down for a lengthy, expensive dinner. Between 5 PM and 7 PM, join the locals and hop between a few chosen spots, ordering a couple of cicchetti (perhaps salted cod, polpetta, or marinated artichokes) and an ombra at each.

  • Try: Cantinone Già Schiavi (famous for its wine selection) or Al Squero (offering fantastic views across the canal to the boatyard where gondolas are repaired).

3. Seek Out the Hidden Staircase: Scala Contarini del Bovolo

In a city known for its bridges and canals, architecture often takes a supporting role. However, if you are drawn to hidden architectural gems, the Scala Contarini del Bovolo is a must-see.

Tucked away in a tiny, almost impossible-to-find courtyard near the Rialto, the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo features an extraordinary exterior spiral staircase. Known as the “staircase of the snail” (bovolo), this Renaissance masterpiece combines Gothic and Byzantine elements, curling up five stories to an open loggia.

The payoff: Climbing the staircase is an adventure in itself, but the true reward is the panoramic view from the top. You get a unique, intimate perspective of Venice’s terracotta rooftops and bell towers without the claustrophobic crowds of St. Mark’s Campanile. Finding it is half the fun—put the address into your phone and be prepared to wander down several dead-end alleys.

4. Explore the Authentic Heart of Cannaregio and the Ghetto

To experience genuine Venetian daily life—the sight of laundry dangling over canals, residents chatting in dialect, and non-chain grocery stores—head north to the Cannaregio district.

This area, which stretches toward the Mestre train station, is largely residential and offers excellent, affordable dining options. More importantly, it is home to the Ghetto Nuovo, the world’s first Jewish Ghetto, established in 1516.

Why it’s special: The Ghetto Nuovo is a place of powerful history and resilient culture. Due to space constraints imposed by the Republic, the buildings here are some of the tallest in Venice, stacked upon medieval foundations. Walk through the quiet central square, observe the five historic synagogues (many offer guided tours), and soak up the unique atmosphere. It’s a perfect way to step back into a complex, vital layer of Venetian history often overlooked by visitors rushing to the main sites.

5. Capture the Pastel Hues of Burano (But Go Early)

Yes, Burano is often listed on the main island tours, but most visitors arrive mid-day when the ferry lines are long, and the narrow canals are choked with people attempting the perfect photograph. To truly experience the magic of the famous rainbow-colored island, you must commit to the early start.

The secret timing: Take one of the first vaporetti out to Burano (via Murano and Torcello). Arriving just as the golden morning light hits the facades allows you to wander the lanes in near solitude. The local fishermen and lace makers are just beginning their day, and the lack of crowds amplifies the whimsical, fairy-tale quality of the architecture.

Tip: Since the island is famous for lacemaking, skip the mass-produced trinkets and seek out a small workshop where you can see the intricate craft being actively practiced.

Don’t Just Visit Venice—Live It

To travel the road less travelled in Venice isn’t about ticking off lesser-known sights; it’s about slow travel. It’s about getting lost, turning down the alley that looks too narrow, and replacing the tourist map with genuine curiosity.

When you allow yourself to wander away from the golden routes, you stop being a hurried observer and start becoming a temporary resident. The Venice you discover in these quiet pockets is richer, deeper, and far more rewarding.

In a word: haul

Well, I know a lot about long haul because, living in Australia, it’s a long, long way to anywhere in the northern hemisphere on what is known as a long-haul airline.

For the rest, haul means to pull a load along with effort or force.

Or a haul can be the plunder of a thief, stolen goods.  It can be something different, though, but generally lots of something taken away, such as fish.

You can haul yourself up the side of a hill or up a cliff face

And for those who are nautically minded and love sailing boats, you’ll know how to haul offshore

If you’re an Olympian, you’ll know that a seven-medal haul was always going to be an uphill task.

This is not to be confused with a hall, which is what you walk down in a building heading to a particular room.

Or it can be the name of a stately residence or building, for instance, Toad Hall.

It can also be a university room where students are housed.

“One Last Look”: nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate: after Ben told his wife, Charlotte, he would be home late one night, he left early and, by chance, discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Rome

Escape the Crowds: Rome’s Top 5 Unsung Tourist Gems

Rome. Just the name conjures images of the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and endless lines of eager tourists. While these iconic sights are essential, the Eternal City offers so much more—especially for those willing to venture slightly off the beaten path.

If you’re looking to soak up Rome’s history, beauty, and distinctive character without battling the massive crowds, we’ve curated a list of the top five visitor attractions that are surprisingly peaceful and utterly captivating.

Here are Rome’s best-kept secrets, proving you don’t need a huge crowd to have a monumental experience.

1. The Centrale Montemartini Museum (Museo della Centrale Montemartini)

Why Visit: This museum offers one of the most stunning juxtapositions in all of Rome: pristine classical statues set against the backdrop of a decommissioned early 20th-century thermoelectric power plant.

The Distinctive Feature: Imagine towering, oily industrial machinery—boilers, engines, and generators—acting as the unlikely stage for brilliant white marble statues of gods and emperors. Originally intended as temporary storage for overflow artifacts from the Capitoline Museums, the exhibit became permanent and breathtaking. It’s an unforgettable blend of industrial archaeology and ancient art, offering a quiet, contemplative space far from the bustling Capitoline Hill.

Crowd Level: Extremely low. Often, you’ll feel like you have entire halls to yourself.

2. The Baths of Caracalla (Terme di Caracalla)

Why Visit: Everyone knows the Roman Forum, but fewer people explore the vast, evocative ruins of the ancient Roman baths. The Baths of Caracalla were a massive public complex, more like a modern leisure center than just a place to wash, accommodating thousands of Romans daily.

The Distinctive Feature: Unlike the Forum, where structures are densely packed, Caracalla’s ruins are sprawling, allowing you to truly appreciate the sheer scale of Imperial Roman architecture. The remaining walls and arches soar towards the sky, hinting at the dome-covered halls and mosaic-tiled floors that once existed. Visiting here is an atmospheric experience, particularly beautiful at sunset, offering a powerful sense of quiet grandeur.

Crowd Level: Low to moderate. While tour buses occasionally stop, the immense size of the site easily disperses visitors.

3. The Basilica di Santo Stefano Rotondo al Celio

Why Visit: If you’re tired of the gilded splendor and tourist throngs of the major papal basilicas, head to Rome’s oldest circular church. Dedicated to Saint Stephen, this basilica is an architectural curiosity unlike any other in the city.

The Distinctive Feature: Built in the 5th century, the church utilizes a striking circular plan with concentric rings of columns. Inside, the walls are lined with graphic frescoes depicting the horrific martyrdoms of early Christian saints. While certainly macabre, these 16th-century paintings are historically fascinating—a unique and somber art gallery within a classical structure. Its isolated location on the quiet Celian Hill ensures a serene, thought-provoking visit.

Crowd Level: Very low. You are likely to find peace and solitude here.

4. The Quartiere Coppedè

Why Visit: Leave the Roman ruins behind for a moment and step into a fantastical, fairytale neighborhood that feels lifted straight out of a storybook.

The Distinctive Feature: Though technically a small urban area within the larger Trieste district, Quartiere Coppedè is an architectural masterpiece designed by Gino Coppedè in the early 20th century. Walk through the stunning archway (the Arco di Coppedè) and discover whimsical palaces, fountains (like the famous Fountain of the Frogs), and facades adorned with sculptures of nymphs, animals, and mythical creatures. It’s a hidden gem of Art Nouveau and Baroque fusion—a completely unexpected visual delight perfect for photography and quiet exploration.

Crowd Level: Minimal. This is a residential area primarily visited by local residents and architecture enthusiasts.

5. The Protestant Cemetery (Cimitero Acattolico)

Why Visit: Tucked away beside the Pyramid of Cestius, this cemetery is one of the most beautiful and tranquil spots in Rome. It is the final resting place for non-Catholics, including famous figures like the poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The Distinctive Feature: Far more than just a graveyard, this site is a lush, perfectly manicured garden park often referred to as “the most beautiful corner of Rome.” Cypress trees cast shadows over elaborate, touching monuments and tombstones written in dozens of languages. It offers a poignant, introspective break from the city noise, blending art, history, and nature in a profoundly moving way. The air of quiet contemplation is palpable.

Crowd Level: Low, though the small entrance fee helps maintain its peaceful atmosphere.

Rome’s true magic isn’t just in its famous landmarks, but in the countless layers of history waiting to be quietly discovered. By seeking out these distinctive, less-trafficked attractions, you can enjoy a richer, more personal experience of the Eternal City. Happy exploring!

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 281

Day 281 – Why great novels are more intelligent than their authors

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Why Great Novels Are Smarter Than Their Authors: Unpacking Milan Kundera’s Bold Literary Claim

“Great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors. Novelists who are more intelligent than their books should go into another line of work.” — Milan Kundera

At first glance, Milan Kundera’s famous assertion sounds paradoxical, if not entirely unfair. After all, how can a creation outsmart its creator? Surely the architect of the plot, the master of the vocabulary, and the orchestrator of the themes must possess a greater intellect than the collection of bound paper they produce.

Yet, when we look closely at the mechanics of great literature—from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Virginia Woolf and Kundera himself—this provocative quote rings profoundly true.

In this deep dive into the philosophy of fiction, we will explore what Kundera meant, why brilliant essayists often fail as novelists, and how the act of writing fiction taps into a collective wisdom that surpasses conscious thought.

1. The Novel as an Autonomous Entity

When a novelist sits down to write, they aren’t merely executing a pre-calculated mathematical formula. If a book is completely mapped out, controlled, and micro-managed by the author’s conscious intellect, it usually turns out stiff, predictable, and didactic.

Great novels, however, take on a life of their own. Characters begin to make choices that surprise even their creators. Subplots take unexpected turns. The thematic undercurrents evolve beyond the original outline.

As the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur noted, once a text is written, it escapes the author’s absolute control. It enters the public domain of interpretation, interacting with history, psychology, and philosophy in ways the author could never have fully anticipated. In this sense, the novel’s “intelligence” lies in its capacity to hold contradictory truths simultaneously—a feat that often overwhelms the author’s everyday, linear logic.

2. Why “Smart” Authors Often Write Bad Novels

Kundera’s warning—that novelists smarter than their books should change professions—is a direct jab at the intellectual who uses fiction merely as a vehicle for propaganda or philosophical lecturing.

When an author’s ego and intellect dominate the narrative, the book becomes a thesis statement in disguise. We see this in heavy-handed didactic literature where characters exist merely to spout the author’s political, moral, or philosophical views. There is no mystery, no moral ambiguity, and no room for discovery.

Conversely, a truly great novelist sets up a laboratory of human behaviour and steps back. They allow their characters to genuinely disagree with one another, embodying complex worldviews without tipping the scales.

  • Fyodor Dostoevsky was deeply conservative and religious, yet his novels (The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment) give voice to brilliant, devastating arguments against faith through characters like Ivan Karamazov. Dostoevsky the man may have had a definitive worldview, but Dostoevsky the novelist created a text smart enough to transcend his own biases.

3. Intuition vs. Intellect: The Unconscious Depth of Fiction

Human consciousness is limited. We are bound by our blind spots, our prejudices, and the constraints of rational thought. But art taps into something deeper: the collective unconscious, intuition, and emotional resonance.

When writing fiction, an author often channels truths they do not yet fully understand in their waking life. They might write a tragic character arc or a toxic relationship dynamic, only to realise years later that it mirrored an unresolved aspect of their own psyche.

In this light, the book knows things about the author that the author doesn’t yet know about themselves. The novel is smarter because it operates on a multi-dimensional plane of metaphors, symbols, and human empathy, bypassing the rigid gatekeepers of the conscious ego.

4. The Novel as an Inquiry, Not an Answer

Milan Kundera believed that the specific wisdom of the novel is ambiguity. In a world obsessed with fast answers, dogmas, and certainty, the novel exists to question.

If a novelist is “too intelligent” in the sense of being overly certain, dogmatic, and keen to provide neat moral conclusions, the book suffers. The best novels leave us with more questions than answers. They invite the reader into a co-creation of meaning.

Think of Franz Kafka’s The Trial or Albert Camus’s The Stranger. These books do not offer neat solutions to the absurdity of existence. Instead, they map out the labyrinth with such breathtaking clarity and depth that the books outlive the cultural moments in which they were written, continuously generating new insights for new generations of readers.

Final Thoughts: The Humility of the True Writer

Kundera’s quote is, ultimately, an ode to literary humility. It reminds writers that their job is not to play God or act as an all-knowing professor imparting wisdom to the masses.

Instead, the novelist is an explorer. They set sail into the vast, murky waters of human experience, charting territories they cannot fully map. If the journey is successful, the resulting book will return with treasures the captain didn’t even know existed—proving that the greatest stories are always wiser than the hands that wrote them.

What are your thoughts on Kundera’s quote? Can you think of a book that feels infinitely wiser than its author’s public persona? Let us know in the comments below!

…

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021