Why write? A century of hands...hands typing out words like a plowman digging rows in the dirt. There are worse fates, to be sure. What overwhelms us at this point is the meaning of the real: there are no vocations, only careers. Is that truly the limits of conception? I feel with cold total certainty that everyone I have ever met face to face believes as much. "I am pleased, in turn, to have something to do with the fact that several young writers today have lost all literary ambition. We publish to seek out men, nothing more..."(The Disdainful Confession; Breton) Yet we will disagree with this as well. There is no one reading this. You and I, I say to myself...we can deny everything that has been previously understood and thereby imagine the possibility of the present...Others, illusory others, might condemn this self-evident affirmation to be false, but if it is so, so is everything else. How might an actual someone ever dare reply? This entire essay, with its deliberate, intelligible progression, is itself a demonstration of the kind of method that it proposes to be a failure. The dimensions following this will only be analogous to language...they will appear to all others, falsely, to be determined totally by chance.
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