I always knew narrative was oppressive--narrowing things down to one or even a thousand perspectives is still an abridgment of infinity. I have real pity for fictional characters, the clueless dupes of dramatic irony--especially the female creations of male novelists, the Lolitas, Caddies, Bovaries ontologically fucked with, their every foible delectably plated. [...] didn't have to die--except to serve their narratives, of which they're denied basic awareness. Vessels for the writer's outlook, for the reader's vicarious experience. For them there's no nature or fortune: just guile. Forced to be interesting, plausible, coherent, deep, through the corrupt brokerage of a narrator. The better the novel, the more enchanting the characters, the more their mysteries are spread-eagled, the greater glory to their creator.

You call it denial, resentment, narcissism. I call it Catholicism. No, I don't think "'writing something makes it real'"--I think reality is text-based. Not poststructurally--postscripturally. We lapsed Catholics have long had our reality debunked as fiction, but we're still in the habit of worrying that Providence is hashing us out. Another reason to pity fictional characters: their Providence is a person, whose subjects are his objects. No matter how a charcter acts out--gets vengeance, gets closure, breaks it down, sees it through--it all serves narrative progress.

Postmodernism was supposed to plug the leak. And it did: like a backed-up septic tank. The revenge of text on author. Tempting; but I can't let go to the Self and become some layer cake of context. Not after all the shit this Self has gone through. Whose teeth are missing? Mine.