My life has given to posterity barely more than two worthwhile and memorable things. Both are short works of fiction. The first, a long denouement and a metaphor for murder, is about a child eating many-coloured ice-cream. Its a narrative in the third person. The child says a black cord-bound phone ringing on a concrete wall is a screaming slug. The other story is Kafkaesque, and gives sensations of confusion and paranoia. Neither story has a resolution. Trouble is unresolved, mystery is preserved. Though transgressive and inspired, both are thereby quite humane.
Posted on: Thu, 24 Oct 2013 08:20:47 +0000