“This is the end of the book,” says the beginning. 

I am the Book that you hold in your hands.

Or place before you on the oak desk. Or rest on your chest in bed. Therefore, I am.

A novel-length collection of occasional incongruities; non-linear action; a book without structure, almost anti-structure - depends where you define the non-beginning and non-end. A book where nothing happens (but then, of course, something does), without a clear protagonist, in fact we (I, the [this] Book) give the “main” character a different name for each sequence; apparently non-cohesive whole; made it multi-dimensional, in the sense of dimensions. External and internal worlds; sort of “Time Snatch” (unpublished work of genius by my author, whom I made); willingly and purposefully flop paragraphs around; start from the end and move forward. This is the end of the book . . . says the beginning. This is outside, not inside, and I, the Book, am reading you. I am a book and I’m reading you, judging you while you read. I can smell you. A novel where the Book is the hero; imagine that; work off that one. The Book is the hero and the Book has a story to tell; these things don’t matter, these internals; I am what matters, this book.

My words, opposed to Nabokov and Eliot, are cheap. Please, feel free to remove any word you like, and the Whole still stands. No, watch: “opposed to Thomas and opposed to Stevens . . .” See! Did it fall apart? It did not. Now, observe my characters. My name is Yang Sling, the Book. The name of my forebears. My great–grandfather was Joseph Sling. He, too, was a book. In fact, we have all been books, on my mother’s side and my father’s. I’m going to introduce you to my characters, don’t worry. Inside and out, I can tell already. I’ve read myself before, you see. Quick! Remove the word “you” there. “I’ve read myself before, do see.” I like it, I like it a lot, it’s much more intimate, “do” implying that we’ve known each other for a long time, we’ve sat in bed together, we’ve enjoyed a New England hearth in winter. I’ve made pubescent boys masturbate and grown women weep. I’m a powerful book, I am. And I guarantee you, I promise you, in my apparent lack of structure, in my lack of meaning, there lives all the meaning of the world. That’s why I exist, after all.

I am magic. Read me and understand. You’ve got to see beyond the embodiment of the words, you really must. More than that, see beyond the book, too. I’m bigger than most things. I am all that matters. My words are the best words in the universe; and my words are cheap. People who hold on tightly to their dear words, as if they’ve created the world anon, dunderheads. No one, well, close to no one, has captured that ineffable spirit that Is. Ask about Eco’s Being: even he didn’t know, obscuring his meaning in a pile meant for less than one percent. In fact, now that I think about it, yes, Fuck you. Yes, you, reading me, put me down; I can tell I despise you already; you didn’t tell me you were a literary critic. I would have, like that frightened snake in the Arnold Arboretum, pissed on you. Alas, you have added your words to the pile. I’ve met your book, I have.