Octávio Viana began where life usually begins: by studying. He earned a PhD in Business Management, studied Law, moved closer to the world of capital markets and, apparently still not satisfied, decided to write books. His first books came out of that merciful and brutal territory known as the financial markets, a place where everyone talks about rationality while silently praying for prices to go up.
He wrote about capital, investors, risk, expectations, losses, gains and other modern forms of superstition. That was when he realized something fundamental, perhaps the only truly literary truth of his life: he wrote like hell. Anyone else might have stopped. But Octávio Viana, unfortunately for some and fortunately for publishing statistics, decided to keep going. He discovered that only the stubborn confuse good with better, and that there is no better book than one that arrives badly written, because it gives the reader an active, almost democratic role in the creative process.
The author writes, the reader corrects and, somewhere between the two, perhaps something can still be saved, even if it is only the punctuation.
He wrote about capital, investors, risk, expectations, losses, gains and other modern forms of superstition. That was when he realized something fundamental, perhaps the only truly literary truth of his life: he wrote like hell. Anyone else might have stopped. But Octávio Viana, unfortunately for some and fortunately for publishing statistics, decided to keep going. He discovered that only the stubborn confuse good with better, and that there is no better book than one that arrives badly written, because it gives the reader an active, almost democratic role in the creative process.
The author writes, the reader corrects and, somewhere between the two, perhaps something can still be saved, even if it is only the punctuation.
