A Novel Is Written Not To Be

We Have Lost The Art Of Public Tenderness, These Small Gestures Of Wiping And Washing; We Have Forgotten How Abjectly The Body Welcomes A Formal Touch.

There Is Nothing As Tentative As An Old Woman's Touch; As Loving Or As Horrible.

And, In Fact, This Is The Tale That I Would Love To Write: History Is Such A Romantic Place, With Its Jarveys And Urchins And Side-buttoned Boots. If It Would Just Stay Still, I Think, And Settle Down. If It Would Just Stop Sliding Around In My Head.

I'm Quite Interested In The Absolute Roots Of Narrative, Why We Tell Stories At All: Where The Monsters Come From.

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.