A book should be like a lot of spit. But who would publish me? Who publishes a person who’s sort of soaking in pain, who can’t always walk, employed only pretty much in name?
“Last night when we were talking about pure cinema, and I called for a transvaluation of all values, and you said that light was the absence of light — we weren’t communicating then, were we? It was just jargon, wasn’t it? Just noise?”
Donald Barthelme | “L’Lapse”