He Had Her In His

All Novels Attempt To Cut Neural Routes Through The Brain, To Convince Us That Down This Road The True Future Of The Novel Lies.

It Wasn't Like The Spare Rooms Of Immigrants - Packed To The Rafters With All That They Have Ever Possessed, No Matter How Defective Or Damaged, Mountains Of Odds And Ends - The Stand Testament To The Fact That They Have Things Now, Where Before They Had Nothing.

For Example, You Have These Grotesque, Hilarious, Profane Ghosts In The Book [lincoln In The Bardo]. Even The Concept Of Talking Ghosts Is, From An Aesthetic Point Of View, Grotesque. But You Seem Compelled By That Risk In Order To Get To The Other End Of The Equation.

I'm Not Sure If You're The Person For Me Any More.

The End Is Simply The Beginning Of An Even Longer Story.