He doesn’t understand. He reads Miller, Mailer, Joyce, Bukowski, Fante, Bataille, he reads Celine’s Voyage to the End of the Night, he reads Genet, he reads Burroughs, he reads Krapp’s Last Tape, why can’t he find a publisher who publishes the kind of book he reads? Every single book he reads is a published book. He’s not calling up manuscripts in the Rare Books and Manuscripts Room of the British Library, setting them out on foam rubber rests, wearing white cotton gloves to handle the precious pages, thinking WOW, WOW, WOW, nobody has EVER seen ANYTHING like this BEFORE, disturbing the silent travails of the other toilers in the Rare Books and Manuscripts Room to announce the discovery of this AMAZING book called Ulysses!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He’s not sitting up in somebody’s attic, hunched over a dusty forgotten trunk with barely legible notebooks open on his lap, ESTRAGON, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot, plummeting down nearly perpendicular stairs to ask the uncomprehending household WHAT is THIS???????????? only to get the indifferent reply, Oh, that’s just some shite of Great-Uncle Sam’s, you want it? sure, sure, take it, you’ll be doing us a favour, we’ll be needing to chuck all that when we put in the jacuzzi-loft-extension, to be honest. He’s not reading typescripts he pulled off skips, struggling to read between the bird shit and the fag burns. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t want to get it. He reads Bernhard to stop trying to get it.