“She gave me water,” Quasimodo.

September 1, 2008 at 7:29 pm | Posted in writing | 27 Comments
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Australia is a dry country. There is a point at which writing becomes the art of manipulation. At the very least you need to capture and hold the reader’s attention to the end of the piece using some degree of craft. Practice makes the necessary techniques instinctive and the choice becomes only where to lead them. More practice enables more voices, she says. Why should I trust you, peering over her sunglasses and sipping her drink, you’re a writer and I know how unstable you people are, and how clever and cunning.

I, the Paul Squires, was a very normal person. At best he was less ‘good’ than most, being far too lazy and undisciplined to be considered moral. He drank and made a living in a job. He was not poor as some point of monklike honour, he was poor because he was an anarchist with a dislike for authority and a laziness which precluded any position of responsibility. He was lecherous and had been known to indulge in the most pornographic of thoughts concerning the most innocent and unsuspecting passersby. He had poor posture as a result of a broken back caused by throwing himself/falling under a train when younger.

I don’t even consider myself particularly intelligent, he thinks. As a result of many years of slow, monobrained study he knows a lot about a very small area of interest and he trusts his instincts. The one ability he has which he worked very hard for a long time to achieve is to manipulate the language and in so doing to manipulate the reader. He tried to use this skill to make things of beauty and to induce a sense of the miraculous and perhaps divine behind the concept of beauty and to persuade people that social life is not particularly difficult if based on compassion and respect.

These ideas and most of the others you may find drifting around this hospital bed are not particularly original and I don’t think this makes me a particularly wonderful or good person either just more deeply manipulative for one very simple and overriding reason. I like to be happy and it is far easier for me to be happy if the people around me are happy. All the male animals here are fictions because the writer’s voice is always an artificial construct, it is inevitable. And all the female creatures could be the language, the divine other, she who gave me water, nurse, he says, pushing the buzzer again,

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