the case against

fiction is immediate, facile, and full of offerings. Its stifling omniscience, selective and absolute, partial and impartial, slanted and angled, like a smudged silver-scraped underside of glass encaging life to fully display, while simultaneously oblivious of its grossly limiting inherent attributes. The triteness and futility of rehashing  the same old story, or pieces of it, with the deliberate nuisance of forcing a life script over another already told, written, and known in its beginning as in its end. The audacity of creativity  is stumped by its thrifty rote output and the eternal scheme to sell the old as new, to reinvent the arrow. However, the question remains: why write? Now, in its unconditional defense, writing is, or should be, maybe can be, thinking. Yet, fictionalizing meanders thinking from a private property stream into a collective and collecting Potomac of tributaries, agencies, contingencies and ideological undercurrents that takes the mind into a delta of the mud and muddling, most famous for its quirky bestiary and fecund vegetation than for its still waters . Then, it's the obvious, extenuatingly cited answer: ' because  one cannot not write': a glittery find, yet an unlikely keeper.  More so, it's the paucity of any language, its functional inadequacy, and altering strings. S wondered how come no one keeps searching for a wholesome language; a language that does not betray from its syllabic inception to its most intricate textual whims, from its sonorous shell to its graphic display, a language that does not sanctify silence in its perennial failure to articulate anything of true dignity. Maybe poetry comes close to some kind of valid alternative. Music, for sure. So, maybe the case against fiction is the case for poetry; it certainly is the case for music and a case for reading.

 Why read? - here's a question that needs not be posed (hence, the case of silence, one may blurt back). However, irrespective of one's aims there is the overarching quest  to understand how the economy of thought  is brought into the light.  The case for reading is the case for the perfect word, a choice wisely made, a balanced image cropped from a warring world, an essence revealed, a splint of knowledge shown to mankind through a smudge-free , true to all dimensions lens.  Then, vice-versa; how is that a loyal choice of words builds a world, reveals a universe, and ultimately gives shape to the functional economy of a crucial thought. I

So, It's all about the word.

 A word . And " flow"

 

And then, that obvious-cum-glorious remark:

" All the books I haven't read!

'They saved me'

All those things I didn't say

'They saved the truth.''

Ironically, both music and noise build credible worlds. This is a thought I've long struggled with.