"Whither are we moving now?"

"All of these declarations of what writing ought to be, which I had myself--though, thank god I had never committed them to paper--I think are nonsense. You write what you write, and then either it holds up or it doesn't hold up. There are no rules or particular sensibilities. I don't believe in that at all anymore."

- Jamaica Kincaid

Indeed, how could one write at all, believing that Hemingway or Joyce had already done it best? Believing that an unwritten(?) code, the ruling iron hand of sensibility, has reached, and will always reach, through the ages, forever guiding the Writer's hand--believing that, paralysis and stagnation among the Commoners, and a wheezing, though omnipotent, aristocracy of writers is the Inevitable, is the End. Gentlemen, is not the End already neigh?


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