fait accompli

All great works of literature require a heady first line.  Something which really captures the essence of the entire vignette, yet is terse enough to leave you in want of more; invariably, it will be memorable. Personally, however, I’ve always placed more importance on the second line of any given work; slightly less concise, yet with no less acuity, it has the ability to expand upon and illuminate the inaugural sentence with a mere comma and meretricious semi-colon; don’t be fooled by their unassuming shape, their ability to extend a sentence, hitherto considered complete, into perpetuity without necessarily being a direct continuation of said sentence cannot be under-estimated. The third sentence, if not carefully managed can often deteriorate into a convoluted, bifurcating and capricious mess as the author struggles to get a handle on his froward thoughts; directly precipitating a hasty conclusion of the paragraph with the fourth sentence as the realization dawns that the entire construct was doomed ab ovo.

This is why I don’t read. Too much thinking. Not only does it require you to keep track of letters, numbers, punctuation, circumflexes, cedillas, “words”, phrases, sentences, syntax, grammar, multiple languages, “erors” [sic], irony, quotes, soliloquies, monologues, dialogues, dodecahedralogues, prefixes, suffixes, neologism, autobicircumdidactificationism, analogy, simile, metaphor, euphemism, allegory, motivation, pretext, context, text, italicism, and boldface, there’s the pictures, too.

All this, combined with the author’s (usually feeble) attempts to connote meaning irrespective of the narrative, reflective of the “real world” and the fact that I don’t know the meaning of at least 85% of the words being ejaculated forth by some pretentious academic with a book open listing a large number of the most obscure and recondite words in the English language in an attempt to promote an image of him or herself as erudite when in reality they probably never lernt how to spell properly netherlone self-edit as they get lost on tangents so incongruous that by the time the comma presents itself at the end of the tangent the reader has forgotten what the hell he or she was reading about in the first place, completely obviates my suspension of disbelief.  Something I have a hard enough time maintaining in reality.

How can I be expected to be absorbed into a vignette describing thus; “On an exceptionally hot evening early in July ” or a “Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead” or that  ”Trudy was sitting on the floor by the bar stroking her slit” when I’m sitting here, in the dark; the wan glow of my computer screen illuminating my unshaven face, a face bespeckled with my own excrement moments after gormandizing my morning (so indicates the “AM” written next to the clock in the bottom right corner of my screen) deposit from the crudely wrapped cloth receptacle within which it was formerly contained, intermittently performing auto-fellatio and rehydrating from the only source of fluid availed of me, as over the past few months I’ve inexorably morphed into some kind of deranged, biological, quasi-perpetual energy machine with a severe case of amoebiasis because I can’t maintain a belief in meaning and existance?

 

No, sir. I’ll stick to writing.