I write because that process, more than any other except death, makes me feel most human.

Imagination is the vital spark of our species, language one of our most unique (and evolved) instincts–especially the Word, but yes, of course, also the Oral Tradition.

And so far our impulse within that instinct has been to define. What I propose, is that we dissolve definition altogether, and instead celebrate the multiplicity of meaning a single group of phonetic sounds can create, and the tremendous impact they can have on human life. And you can share this; it is for us alone.

We must celebrate in as many ways as we can, for then is when possibility becomes endless–and while a record and testament of the Individual, our literature, (the Word) is also a constant reminder of what has happened in our jarbled history, of what is happening now, and the INFINITE POSSIBILITY of what might happen next.

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Each and every novel must be, in and of itself, an assertion on what the book is. What is book. What is novel.

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Postmodernity and Modernity, mutually dependent as mutually established, though in constant struggle: for the so-called Postmodern to evolve into radical form and seek absolute freedom, of even time and reality and consciousness, while the so-called Modern assimilates these ideals into constructed order, common sensibility, in the name of progress. Modernity will always attempt to make sense of and give semblance to the very chaos which Postmodernity so values and embraces, thus growing both of them, moving them along though they have no direction.