Sometimes I feel as though that even to touch a novel would contaminate me.

It is not only a hatred of language or of words, per se, but rather the substance

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.

- 0 1 +