Nonsense. Let us examine this curious literary phenomenon, this running on and on, along intricately placed lines of verse, or worse, Dylan-esque choruses of riddling confusion. The Blues and Greys, the ways certain writers write, whether it be right or stupid.
I mean, for all its academic praise, William Burroughs' Naked Lunch is just a bunch of random passages the man wrote whilst high as a kite--outtasite, dad, but you've been had if you consider it *ahem* Great Literature. Ah hell, I love the book, but most of it is pointless doodling of one's own noodle, and God bless ol Bull Lee for it.
Gravity's Rainbow, anyone? Fun to read, but nonsense indeed, much like James Joyce, or most of Faulkner. Another shocker, more recent but no less silly, is House of Leaves. What the hoo...? Oh sure, you can argue your deeper meanings, your subtexts and themes, but it seems you've been had as well, so farewell ye noodle-scratchers.
Point being...uh...nonsense, yes, God! Like an unwoven ream of dreaming possibilities. The cats up in Portland had the right idea for awhile, all that Bizarro fiction craze (pancakes and pickles running away together and eloping, for instance), but the fad has since fizzled-out, somewhere in the 'o-digit' decade. Shame.
Nonsense. You either love it or hate it. I adore the junk, myself.
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