This is not a novel. It is novel. There are words, that’s all, more than enough. You see the book is about unsaying words in order to return to the silence we came from. Get back to childhood then further back to the preverbal preschizoid past. Paradise. Why? Because children are simply preferable to adults, because unity is simply preferable to chaos, because silence is simply preferable to noise, because we don’t communicate quack quack quack, because we don’t connect fuck fuck fuck, because . . . What the Surrealists did with objects, I do with words. They are removed from their habitual contexts, so their purpose becomes unknown. And this is harnessed to a psychological voyage – a return to childhood, where we all want to go; wholeness, where we all want to be . . . Over and shout it all out, shit it all out . . .