Friday, 5 June 2009

Is there any point in writing a novel?

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God.

This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse.

No, that is not me describing my blog and my situation in life. It is Henry Miller at the beginning of his 1934 novel Tropic of Cancer. But it makes me wonder …

Update: Yes, there is a point (I think). The internet is the future, but the future isn't here yet. But it may be here tomorrow. But tomorrow never knows.