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  • Format: ePub

Quinton Moss is the Think-Painter. Martina Thorpe is the woman he loves. Martina's father, Kensingham J. Thorpe, is a chemist, philosopher, and the world's foremost authority on the brain.
The professor has devoted his career to searching for the first thought, the original synaptic interplay that created thinking. Everyone possesses this thought in their deep subconscious. "It's the instinct that drives us to seek each other," the professor says.
He knows the Original Thought is in us, and he believes he's found a way to it.
"They are paintings. Not paint like oil or watercolor.
…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
Quinton Moss is the Think-Painter. Martina Thorpe is the woman he loves. Martina's father, Kensingham J. Thorpe, is a chemist, philosopher, and the world's foremost authority on the brain.
The professor has devoted his career to searching for the first thought, the original synaptic interplay that created thinking. Everyone possesses this thought in their deep subconscious. "It's the instinct that drives us to seek each other," the professor says.
He knows the Original Thought is in us, and he believes he's found a way to it.
"They are paintings. Not paint like oil or watercolor. They're electronic, kind of alive."
"Alive? They're not alive."
"In a way they are. The human body is all electric and chemical. These paintings connect to it like a second body."
"What?"
"Not a body, of course."
"Of course."
"More like another mind, the artist's mind."
Colby didn't comment. He knew a little about think-painting. It wasn't a modern art form. It had been around since the late 21st Century. Few people in the art world took it seriously because there weren't many good think artists.
Some critics considered it free thought unfettered, as compared to other computer-assisted designs in which the machine was a direct partner. When it came to think-painting, the computer network was more like a canvas. A distinction that Colby didn't comprehend. He wasn't in any hurry to figure it out.


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Autorenporträt
Born in antiquity, I was raised with Robert Louis Stevenson, Walter Scott and Mark Twain. I'd spend Friday nights with my grandmother and she would read to me. With sound effects and excitement.
All I've ever wanted to be is a writer and dreamed of being Ernest Hemingway. (I got the drinking part right.)
I worked for the college paper; was founding editor of a weekly newspaper; and I did a lot of magazine work, including for adult entertainment.
My fantasy books are for Jill, my wife, who loves dragon stories with strange creatures and magick. Sword and sorcery, with a blend of mystical philosophy about life and love. She and I wrote a dragon story titled Fort Jafra: Beware the Rae Jungle, which we updated and polished, and were working on a follow-up in the weeks before she died last year. Kidney Problems. Lost my best friend. I'm trying to fill the void with the fantasy she loved.
She and I published Unfinished Faces, a book of my poetry and her art. I also have written a few cookbooks. My characters like to eat.
These days, I'm in rural Central Valley, three dogs and four kittens I found in a discarded box in the walnut grove.