§
When I began writing these new books (the ones that I am naming Not Novel 8 and then this current book, plus however many follow in their book-steps), I had only one idea: to break away from the more confined “novel” form, which requires a certain amount of continuity in at least a fraction of its material, and instead to compose whatever I desire: just like I used to do when I was contributing to my journal (The Public Private Diary of Bryan Ray) — in other words, as opposed to enforcing a strict coherence, I chose to embrace an either/or approach: EITHER to connect each chapter’s themes, characters and story (if it has any) to the previous chapter, OR simply to begin anew whimsically in any direction, writing in any fashion about anything. I hoped that by following this plan, I would enjoy the best of the novel-world as well as the best of the journal-world. This idea appealed to me because I had just finished publishing a series of pseudo narratives, or books that I tried to give the illusion of possessing somewhat consistent characters and plot; and although each of the titles in this bunch was a thrill to create, I was growing tired of being confined to that style of self-torment.
Now, why am I still writing this? What do I hope it will do for me? — I want to try to address these questions here, because, when I was a young novel-reader, I would, without fail, arrive at the eleventh chapter of any book I was reading, and I would look up from the text and say to the sky (I only ever read outside, never withindoors), “Why the actual fuck is this author still writing? Doesn’t he know that his compositions (I say ‘his’ because these novelists were always male) are trash that’s fit only to be burned and that he should kill himself?” But I never got an answer to these queries. Perhaps I didn’t shout loud enough.
So: Why am I still writing? The answer is pure habit — I’m in the habit of writing every morning, and it goes no deeper than that.
Next question: What do I hope novel-writing will do for me? My answer is the same as it has ever been: I write in hopes of gaining IMMENSE fame. I want my name to be as big and bright as Shakespeare’s, flashing neon and rising from the center of the School of the Ages, in the City of the Future.
And, as to the final question: Don’t I know that my boox are bad and that I should do myself in? — First, permit me to quote a bit of dialogue from the 2013 film Wrong Cops.
OFFICER ROUGH: “…well, what do you say? [What’s your opinion about my song that I just played for you?]”
OFFICER DUKE: “You want me to be honest?”
ROUGH: “Totally, of course…”
DUKE: “That song is shit in a can.”
ROUGH: “What?”
DUKE: “I thought it was just awful…you should throw that song in the trash and start again from scratch. — That’s my friendly advice.”
So, regarding the fact that my writing does not please you, I say: I’m sorry, and I wish that it did. It pleases me; and I wish I had not been born with aesthetic sensibilities that are so miscalibrated, since your own are calibrated properly.
Now, as for whether this should make me commit self-slaughter, I say: You have logic and reason on your side, but, unfortunately for you, I myself tend to think irrationally. IF one of my writings achieved the type of success that I’m always yearning for, THEN maybe it would drive me to kill myself; for I’d be reasoning within my mind (and thus whispering aloud) as follows:
“There’s nowhere to go from here but down; so I better quit while I’m ahead!”
It’s like hitting the jackpot; then realizing that if you keep gambling, you’ll end up squandering every last cent of your windfall, because the house always wins; therefore you simply must leave the casino, if you wish to avoid bankruptcy coupled with a violent, humiliating death. — But, as it is, every time that I bet upon a book, it fails; and this keeps me going: I’m attracted to the challenge of the impossible, and I will die trying.
§
Actually, now that I think of it, I wish I were smarter — I wish I had the common sense to see what a bad idea it is to remain here on Earth. I should translocate to Venus, and just fill her shelves with boox. Then at least I’d have an excuse for my poor sales: I could argue, “Nobody else exists.” And all the people who live there would vouch for me.
Sales. What a shortsighted metric. Let me repeat a thing I heard David Graeber say, which he in turn might’ve stolen from someone else: You only purchase a goblet once, but you wash it a zillion times.
Do you see the point? If you fashioned your stemware out of flimsy material, it would break while you were sipping from it, and you’d get glass shards in your mouth, and blood in your absinthe. You might have just tripped into inventing a new fad cocktail. Thus your sales burst thru the roof, because now absolutely everyone wants a goblet to break in their mouth.
So I’ve just got to discover the literary equivalent of making folks yearn to swallow broken glass.
§
But people would rather talk than listen. And literature shares too much with the listening aspect of conversation.
That’s funny, tho, when you think about it: There’s a give and a take. In the realm of the mind, people would rather vouchsafe than receive: they’d rather speak their own words of wisdom than heed another’s foolish advice. Yet it’s the opposite when you exit the mind and enter spacetime: physical reality — here, people would rather take than give and be blabbed at than blab.
§
Now imagine that you walk in on a party of people playing poker at a roundtable. There is a mountain of coins piled up before the hero, who’s dressed in white linen. And now you notice that the other players — the ones who are not heroes, who are not dressed in white linen, and who are, frankly, losers — I say, these other players are winking and twitching so as to get your attention, since you are a newcomer who has only recently entered the gameroom; and these players collectively whisper to you, saying:
“The hero in white is cheating — he is not actually very good at this game.”
And you reply clandestinely: “Well then why do you all continue to play with him, if you think that he has broken all the rules? Why not stand up and leave; and take your money back, as you go?”
The players now whisper a collective answer: “Because the man keeps his firearms aimed at us, under the table.”
So you crouch down and look. — Sure enough, you see two huge handguns being held by the holy-garbed hero. These guns slowly rotate and aim at your face; then they discharge and slay you.
You have just read a parable of the United States of America.
§
School here is fun tho. You have teachers who rap your knuckles with hard wooden rulers. That helps a child learn. Also verbal abuse in general.
It seems like escaping in a rocketship would be the right move; but you’re forgetting that Venus is already brimful of literature, and there’s no place else in space that has any interest whatsoever.
§
Yesterday I read that Nietzsche favors Ancient Rome over Ancient Greece. That made me sad, because I myself favor Ancient Greece over Ancient Rome. (I could tell you why; but, who cares, at this point.) Because I so deeply admire the man, I allow myself to instill myself with more confidence when my preferences align with Nietzsche’s.
§
Also I think our neighbors across the street might be moving. They keep fixing up their house and making it pretty. No man improves his property unless he’s planning on selling it. So, this worries me, because they’re a good and friendly family — my fear is that rude neighbors might move in and take their place.
No comments:
Post a Comment