The novelist I pretend to be is a character invented, for the sole purpose of being obliterated, by the writer I am. The writer I am wants nothing to do with novelist. He suspects the novelist of wanting to restore to fiction the particular order of reality that suffocated him and drove him to write in the first place. The impossibility of swimming in a bathtub greatly increases the risk of drowning. Death is an archaic holdover from barbarian times. He eats nothing, and so his stomach will ascend to heaven after his death. Extraterrestrials exist, far superior to us technically and scientifically- and they will overrun the world. Everyone conceived tonight and tomorrow will be one of them.