The Smiths Are Singing And Someone Says

I Don't Know Why I Write What I Write.

Where There Was Nature And Earth, Life And Water, I Saw A Desert Landscape That Was Unending, Resembling Some Sort Of Crater, So Devoid Of Reason And Light And Spirit That The Mind Could Not Grasp It On Any Sort Of Conscious Level And If You Came Close The Mind Would Reel Backward, Unable To Take It In. It Was A Vision So Clear And Real And Vital To Me That In Its Purity It Was Almost Abstract. This Was What I Could Understand, This Was How I Lived My Life, What I Constructed My Movement Around, How I Dealt With The Tangible.

...there Is An Idea Of A Patrick Bateman, Some Kind Of Abstraction, But There Is No Real Me, Only An Entity, Something Illusory, And Though I Can Hide My Cold Gaze And You Can Shake My Hand And Feel Flesh Gripping Yours And Maybe You Can Even Sense Our Lifestyles Are Probably Comparable: I Simply Am Not There.

Michel Houellebecq Is The Most Interesting, Provocative And Important European Novelist Of My Generation. Period. No One Else Comes Close. He Has Written Two Or Maybe Three Great Books, And His Latest, The Map And The Territory, Is One Of Them.

And It Struck Me Then, That I Liked Sean Because He Looked, Well, Slutty. A Boy Who Had Been Around. A Boy Who Couldn't Remember If He Was Catholic Or Not.