Eulogy of imaginary anti–narritive author
He was not good enough for the volcano he fell into. By merging his atoms with the future-rock boiling in that crater and with the atmosphere he has made the world a worse place, despite the insignificance of number of his molecules to the worlds. That is how shitty he was.
I speak, of course, of ‘renowned’ anti-narrative ‘author’ Eustace Broxtowe. I use the term, to use a cliché, in the loosest sense. It’s not that I have anything against anti-narrative; but there is anti-narrative the experimental, ground breaking and exciting literary form which disregards traditional notions of story, character and setting and there is “As follows, it being borne in beard, his family had all bearded for the applicable fungi. For the shire show blue ribbon, at some point.”
Though I mourn all the trees and squids whose lives are being wasted to make the ink and paper to print all the undeserved eulogies (and this one, which he more than deserves), not to mention all the ‘celebratory editions’ of his work that will now be printed and sold, it is at least a short term sacrifice for a long term gain. Since he can no longer produce any new work, no squids and spruces can go into the printing of that: both in its original run and in the aforementioned reprints at his eventual inevitable death, which would be in addition to the reprints of the work he did produce this far, if you get what I mean. You do, don’t you?
There are other reasons, apart from freeing us from his writing, why it’s no bad thing that Broxtowe is inhaling granite. Let us not forget that he had a criminal record, having been arrested on numerous occasions for basalt and battery and obsidian publications. Ok I’ll stop now.
- Joseph Gedling
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