Everyday life is dull. No, that’s wrong. Everyday life is drearily, drably, impossibly dull.
Everyday life is dull. No, that’s wrong. Everyday life is drearily, drably, impossibly dull.You know, it’s made up of all those flat details realist novelists love to write about, and that sicken me to read. I try not to think about those bits of life. Enough to have to go to the toilet without having to write about it in agonising detail. Sure, I brush my teeth, but why recall it as something important? Why dignify it with reams of prose then claim to be doing something literary? Something boring, I call it. Something drab.
You know, it’s made up of all those flat details realist novelists love to write about, and that sicken me to read. I try not to think about those bits of life. Enough to hav
