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
