I carry my two books to the counter, wondering what bookbuyers around me
would do if they knew I’m the author of fourteen published novels — a great
artist. They’d probably mob me, beg for my autograph, touch my magic coat, and
the pretty young girls among them would try to stick their tongues up my ass. But I can’t say anything — it’d only stamp me
as a braggart and a hack. Besides, intellectuals have contempt for books like
mine. They don’t realize that the great archetypal hallucinations of our times
are contained within so-called trashy books, while literary establishment
authors like Updike, Barth, Roth — that ilk — are effete dilettantes who should
be teaching lit courses in colleges, and in fact many of them are, the
scumbags.

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