What is Literature? you might ask. Or you might not. Though there seems to be much talk of truth and authenticity. Apparently, because fiction isn't "true" (that is, based on "real facts" that "happened in real life"), it isn't interesting, or useful, or, god forbid, "authentic". What a load of Shit. Do you want to know what Literature is? I don't mean a definition, I mean really, what it is? How it's made, what it does (to you)? No need to click on a social media site ad promising to teach you "how to write a story". Just read this book. And then read it again. It is the incarnation of Literature, in all its magic and mystery. It is the flesh made word. It is the creation and destruction of flesh, made word.

I lived with this text for a long time, more than three months. I read it twice, but not once-through and then a second time through. I took two steps forward then two steps back, carefully taking notes on the second pass. Like Molloy, I went in circles to find my way out of the forest. And like Molloy, I didn't want to leave the forest; every word, every line, felt like a clue, a clue to a mystery; a bit of light in the darkness, catching a glimpse of a secret. In the end you understand. Not because of the text, but despite the text, despite the text that can't and won't describe demonstrate reveal, despite the language that isn't adequate, despite the text that creates and destroys itself at the same time. But you will understand.