Yeah, and then there are the agents: feeble necks wobbling tumescent heads…
The reality is, the public picture you erect, of reading so-called “samples” that have been faithfully and compliantly sent you according to your rules, is nothing but a façade; it is a fraud, a falsehood, a scam, and a crock.
Because it’s all about acquaintanceship and elbow-rubbing, private meetings, personal introductions, and who knows whom, and politics, and ideologies, and schools; it’s all parties, and fetes, and clubs, and favors, and phone calls that get through, with no messages being left, repeatedly, through secretaries, or recorded by machines, until one who keeps trying simply gives up – isn’t it?
All of your publicized protocols and exacting demands are nothing but a bunch of shit. You and your filthy, underhanded, lying little games.
You’re the reason why literature has turned so bad, and why good new literature has become so hard to come by. You no longer know the first thing about it. You are like Stalin’s mustache in Mandelstam’s poem. You are political cucks, extensions and feelers for Big Brother; slimy, disgusting tentacles, shilling for Goldstein…
But there are ways around you, and over you, and through you. And what the fuck are you going to do about it? Nothing. Why? Because you are a bunch of sniveling, quivering cowards. That’s why. And you’re not that smart…
Read the story, “The One-Minute-Late Four Fifty-Eight… Part 1 / 2” if you want. It’s no skin off my nose. And the grand finale of Part 2, too, if you wish.
Otherwise, you won’t know what happened – DUUUUUHHH!!!
Think I’m in a bad mood, or got an attitude?
Maybe next time, you’ll get some other Joker to write your previews for you.
3.7.26