Actually, I died twenty-one years ago. Christmas day, to be precise, 1987. I know what you're thinking... so who... what... where... how the hell am I typing this? Well, I'm getting my friend, Mario Vickram Sen, to type all this info for you. He's alive, you'll be happy to hear, and living very happily in Hackensack. He's agreed to do this work because he wants to try and sell the novel I had him type for me. It's called "The High Priest of Prickly Bog."
Well, there's not much else to do around here. It's not so much that we lie around on puffy white clouds, but more that there actually doesn't seem to be anything around at all. So I have all day... well, all night, actually... a sort of never ending night really... to sit (float) around and think up ideas. And then I try to communicate them with my living friend, Mario. Although sometimes he's not very cooperative. You have to catch him in a typing mood, or else he just buggers off and plays his guitar, or watches TV, or something. (He's giving me a hard time about correcting spelling mistakes right now!)
Salman Rushdie, James Joyce, Thomas Hardy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, John Updike, Saul Bellow... I don't know, I don't do much reading anymore. It's really kind of dark over here.
I know... what a nerve he's got. Doesn't Mario know that we all live in servitude to the art (whatever it might be?).
Hey H.B. -- Keep that mortal slave of yours typing, for the benefit of all, darkness be damned!
I know... what a nerve he's got. Doesn't Mario know that we all live in servitude to the art (whatever it might be?).
Hey H.B. -- Keep that mortal slave of yours typing, for the benefit of all, darkness be damned!