Sometimes I feel as though that even to touch a novel would contaminate
It is not only a hatred of language or of words, per se, but rather the
of fiction itself, its attempt to organize and make sense of phenomenon,
to mimic science, to simplify, to insult.
I particularly hate the attempt of artifice prostituting itself to naturalism.
The artifice of characters, locations, odd quirks----all this seems baroque,
an attempt to plaster a thick layer of shitty values and wholesale morals
onto what is clearly a construct of the human mind or unconscious. It is
an unconsciously grotesque ventriloquism, a sort of self-hatred, an unsurety
of thought, clothing itself in a random array of details. Narrative is
a repression of all real movement, the blinders on a horse that ensure forward
movement by tunnel vision.
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