sadoo the vole nullity tutu

the novel sadoo  though this is not its true title  becomes a novel by means of a magical sleight against itself

a novel  being imaginary and linked in ways were incapable of understanding to life  which is even more imaginary  must have as its premise a creator or more reasonably creators who not only dont exist but cant

the novel  being the dominant form of whats sometimes called literature today  assuming as it does that it can stuff all other forms into it  a medieval catholicism of art sucking every deviancy into itself and leaving nothing out for it speaks and it only speaks for god and good and good and god and evil and beyond is all  is  as some argentinians and perhaps others have noted  anything and everything  thus my claims for sadoo are  even at their most extreme  prosaic and modest

that im a novel  that i write myself and am written  is now a commonplace thats more tired than television  and so entirely untrue   novels  if theyre anything at all and theyre probably not  have nothing to do with the human  this or that i  the stupidity of stories and their academic icing narrative  what do they have to do with then? no one knows and if you dont get this you should jump out of the novel that does or doesnt exist and crash into the void except you cant

haha

blogger  despite its pervasive imbecilities  has a certain intelligence and some of this is the question built into its very structure of where the novel starts  this doubt of origins  and corollaryly ends and middles and so ruptures of causation and identity  would be clever if it were original  but of course  by extension  its not

due to this but not only this none of the characters  though some have suggested without a complete lack of cogency that sadoo is most certainly the worlds first and last characterless novel  die  and if sadoo has any courage  though this is inestimably doubtful  its this rather careless slaying of death  far more likely than courage  a nonchalance born of too much movement which itself arises from a continuous horror of life  which is to say  the novel

its the little things that make a novel  for example shortly after midnight at around 000936 i throw a dishrag over the bannister from the top floor aiming for the wood flooring one storey below but landing it instead on the second step up from the wood flooring one storey below which births laughings of those categories that recognize the inherent humour isnt funny and in this lack of comedy wit peeks

i could go on and i will   but  like life  i mean the imagination  nono the novel  interruptions are constant  not just of content  a carpets delivered and im required by the imposed protocols of an insane society thats constantly protesting it isnt to sign some device with a nonpen pen at a door  but form   the novel questions itself and collapses into its questionings  becoming a notnovel thats more a novel than the novel it never was before