A slim and no doubt deliberately puzzling little novella that appears to wear its literary and metaphorical conceits on its sleeve ...
... but proves considerably more slippingly elusive than it at first leads the reader to believe, from the Macuto Line to Mad Scientist introspection, engineered not-really wasps to cloned genius authors, lost love to a curious play emerging from the past, and finally the revelation that "colossal blue worms were slowly descending from the mountain peaks" ...
In part due to the requisites of clarity (poetic fog horrifies me), and in part to my natural preference for an orderly exposition of the material, I deem it most appropriate to begin at the beginning. Not, however, at the beginning of this story but rather at the beginning of the previous one, the beginning that made it possible for there to be a story at all. Which in turn requires me to switch levels and begin with the Fable that provides the tale's logic.
... but proves considerably more slippingly elusive than it at first leads the reader to believe, from the Macuto Line to Mad Scientist introspection, engineered not-really wasps to cloned genius authors, lost love to a curious play emerging from the past, and finally the revelation that "colossal blue worms were slowly descending from the mountain peaks" ...
The solution is none other than the greatly overused (by me) "escape forward." Since turning back is off limits: Forward! To the bitter end! Running, flying, gliding, using up all the possibilities, the conquest of tranquility through the din of the battlefield. The vehicle is language. What else?
