Story IV
The question of whether or not Story II is postmodern or not is an interesting one, wrote 5. From the outset, Story I seems to be the postmodern section: the characters 1 and 2 have neither gender nor identity, and spend their time pondering in a nameless, shapeless world until the end of the piece, talking only of one text, which has no name or noted features.
They argue greatly about the one text. Though in fact they are only discussing the one work, they argue as though there were a great many differences between their reading material.
The most evident symbolism here is that of war. The blind patriotism present in Story I is never explicitly stated, but is quite clear when we analyse the content of what 1 and 2 are saying to each other. Let us review what is said:
2 looked across at 1, and all e could feel was rage. That lout, lying around, absorbed in a good book, when other people have real work to do. Real lives to live. Reality to face…
This is precisely the same attitude adopted by many soldiers entering major battles. Consider that we replace 1 and 2 not just with individual figures from history or fantasy, as is done in the Novels A to D. Consider instead that we insert the USA and Vietnam for the Vietnam War or Britain and Germany in either the First or Second World War. We could place the republicans and monarchists in many civil wars, such as in Britain in the 17th century or France in the 18th and 19th centuries. And then many countries just invade each other for the sake of nationalism. Such as Britain and most of Africa. Or the USA and around fifty other countries.
5 turned back to the portion of eir computer screen showing the document ‘Stories I and II – section III’. E scrolled up to eir point on Story I:
“Then it happened. The event which shook the foundations of their relationship and slashed the heart of the atmosphere.
“It. The great it occured.
“‘What on Earth is it?’ asked 2.
“‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked 1, fully aware that it was not completely obvious to 2, but wanting to sound reassuring at the same time as timidly comforting. ‘It is it.’”
5 looked back at list A. It was a straightforward code to indicate how to translate (‘translate’ – e wondered whether or not this was the correct term for adding characters to a postmodern, characterless realm of non-specific meandering; e concluded it probably wasn’t; he used it anyway) Story I into Novel C. E then did so, writing:
“Then the horrific incident happened. The event which shook the foundations of Sylvia and Ted’s relationship and slashed the heart of the atmosphere.
“The telephone started ringing in Ted’s apartment. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go,’ he said, turning to kiss Assia’s forehead before he left the room. He picked up the phone and heard those dreaded words he’d always imagined but never thought possible. The worst thing imaginable had happened. The news broke Ted’s ears as it broke his heart. Sylvia had been discovered, lying out on the dirty kitchen floor, dead, with the children upstairs eating bread and butter.
“A single tear rolled down Ted’s cheek.
“‘What on Earth is it?’ asked the ghost of Sylvia, conjured up before Ted as he sank to his knees. ‘I’m dead, but I’ve been dead for a very long time.’
“‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Ted. ‘I know we’ve been distant. I know death can be a bleak and negative thing.’
“‘Life is negative,’ said Sylvia. ‘Death is but the beginning of something happy.’
“‘Perhaps,’ said Ted. ‘Perhaps that may be the case. But that’s not what makes me really sad. What truly and sorrowly breaks my heart is one fatal acknowledgement. Your suicide is the end of us.’”
It wasn’t perfect. 5 could always re-edit it and perfect that ‘translation’ later.
5 turned back to the document titled ‘Stories, introduction’ and returned to typing.
If a text analyses itself, what room does that leave for critics and even standard readers?
I suppose by writing this introduction to the collected ‘Stories I and II’, I am in a sense ruining the critical faculties of all the Stories’ readers. I am telling them how to think before they ever get an opportunity to think for themselves.
Perhaps this piece of writing would be best reserved for right at the end of the book. Once the Stories have been neatly compiled together alongside the Novels, this would be the perfect piece to end the collection. Plus, there is a much stronger possibility people will read it.
They get the opportunity to ignore the introduction, but not an afterword. With an afterword, there is no excuse.
Since Barthes, of course, there is infinite scope for analysis and understanding without having to go through the trivial matter of thinking about the author in eir grave.
Here 5 consciously changed topic, being as e was knowledgeable about the problems associated with slipping into Barthesian overanalysis; not that a work could be overanalysed, of course, since the nature of literature required that a work could be read in depth; but many critical essays could and did evaluate themselves to an extreme point of rendering their own meaning unclear.
Story II, however, is that which explores four novels. These Novels describe a vast expanse of time, lasting from 1914 to 2014. The significance of this century is that it extends from World War I to its centenary.
The supposed Great War was a turning point, being the painful line between classical wars where people could fight in absolute confidence they would be reborn in a postmortem utopia, and the post-Nietzschean modern wars wherein death is unclear, and so generally viewed as an endpoint to life with no certainty of an afterlife.
Story I only deals with the one novel, which they simply call ‘Novel’. That word implies ingenuity. The ‘novel’ element of Story I is Novel itself. But Story II expands this four times, opening up much greater scope for literary exploration.
However does this relate to the problems and solutions of art? wondered 5.
Of course neither of these works could achieve anything beyond the postmodern – i.e. they could never enter the realm of the postpostmodern – unless they somehow interacted with an interpretation of themselves. If a critic of both talked about the nature of being postmodern itself, then the work could be seen as postpostmodern.
Of course, then and only then would the critic’s writing have to appear within the work itself.
The issue then is who wrote the criticism? If the criticism were written by an external force (another writer or reviewer perhaps), then the work would not be postpostmodern in and of itself.
If the writer of the self-contained criticism were the writer of the rest of the book (if, in this example, we were to suppose that one person wrote all of Story I, Story II, the Novels, and the concluding self-analysis), then the complete work would undoubtedly be an example of postpostmodernism.
What the work would also be, of course, is entirely self-congratulatory. If an author wrote a highly experimental work such as that which is seen within these pages, then concluded the work by presenting an essay which described the genius of the work itself, then the whole 40,000-word piece of writing would be worthless bragging about a dull novel.
I say 40,000-word on the assumption that this work ends up being a novel rather than a novella; the popular distinction within literary and publishing circles being that 40,000 words is the cutoff point.
Where was I going with this…? thought 5.
The collected works will likely form a very short novel, told in six or seven sections.
Using Story I in conjunction with the lists and Story II, 5 was attempting to craft together the Novels imaged by the two.
Similarly to the concept of 1+1=3 explored by Modernist poets such as Ezra Pound, as well as constructivist film-makers Dziga Vertov and Eisenstein, the continual reference to Story I and Story II creates an imagined third tale. The third tale is the set of Novels which Story I becomes when it enters the world of Story II.
Of course, there are more tales present: the Novels themselves creat
e a number of worlds, in which the characters are reading countless novels themselves.
5 decided it would be best if e tied these themes within his mind into the introduction e was currently writing.
If I exist in the same world as Stories I, II and III, then I must surely be Story IV. But, of course, I am reality. These three layers of being are below me, in the fictional. But suppose I were part of the fiction. There may be a reality beyond me, known as Story V. Then it must certainly be the case that gods (of the Greek, Norse, Roman and Hindu kinds; being uncapitalised and numerous in number and purpose) are Story VI. Extending from this, the Abrahamic God may be seen as existing within Story VII. That is not to claim some religions to be superior to others, but to suggest that the relative functionality of different overworld and afterlives leads us to believe that reality and non-reality combined may not be so simple as life and death.
Story I is life torn down to its bare bones, whilst the infinitely extending levels of Stories show us the complexity of life, then the complexity of what exists beyond our current comprehension of life.
Great, thought 5. I have not only questioned reality, but I have also created several new realities for me to question, and several gods and universes to look down upon my universe from.
Clearly Novel D is the greatest work of them all. It seems that the intention behind the writing of the first two Stories (and perhaps even the Novels A-C themselves) is to build up a reputation of mildly sour and unsatisfactory writing in order to heighten the tensions and encourage a warmer reception for Novel D.
The final part of the compiled collection presents everything we have been encouraged to long for by the earlier texts: more characters, more creativity, more conversation; but, beyond mere quantities, we also see a more in-depth analysis of the literary process; having two characters stood in a room debating the canon is the setup of a poorly constructed play; having a collection of unique characters is a finely woven charade to promote the message of ‘good’ versus ‘bad’ literature being an endless debate.
I notice increasingly that my use of semi-colons has risen dramatically since reading and writing this book in the style of Virginia Woolf.
One of the noticeable distinctions within the book is the reinterpretation of 4’s character after we read the Novels.
Upon first reading Story II, I felt 4 to be a character who preferred pleasure over meaning – almost emblematic of hedonism. Upon reading Novel B (the work she initially expressed so much love for), however, I felt my sense of respect for her reduce.
This is likely to upset some radical feminists. I’m a feminist, of course; I respect women and believe strongly in equal rights. But there are some supposed ‘feminists’ who throw a tantrum every time a woman is criticised.
Some of the female characters in this work are wholeheartedly annoying characters and deserve harsh criticism.
Of course, there are a great many male characters as well, most of whom deserve even more severe criticism. Ted Hughes is the worst culprit, alongside the ignorant James Joyce, the stupid Charles, and the arrogant men at Cleopatra’s party.
But I think it can be says that these tales on their own support a positive image of women. Virginia Woolf is the hero of the work. Even when she is not present, her influence is strongly apparent. She was a genius never fully respected in her own time.
Even now, she is never given anything more than a small fraction of the credit she deserves.
It may be the case, as they say, that universes (should that be ‘universapodes’?) splinter off each time a variable comes along. The multiverse theory suggests so. If this is the case, Story I may be seen as the Gaia universe: the initial works from which every possible variant emanates.
Not only would this make all the Novels different variations of the same story, but would make Story I one of the few unique stories in the world. Despite being fully generic, it is the starting point for every other story, and every splinter universe.
Story I is as The Odyssey: the same way Virginia Woolf and James Joyce adore and aspire to write versions of The Odyssey, so too each Novel is really a tributary form of Story I.
And what is the significance of 2014 as a year? Yes, that is the year the Stories were written, but it also marks the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War. Whoever wrote this piece appears to be the sort of person itching to allude to historical events and make use of the anniversary. But, as is the case with Story I, no specific relevance can be drawn. So, as the ‘translator’ – still for want of a better word – I am obliged to draw parallels and make the figures of Novel A reference Joyce’s first book published and the Great War, as well as remarking upon the uncanny proximity between the two.
5 returned to the other document and wrote a section comparing 2014 to 1914. E then returned to eir introduction.
One of the qualities of these stories is that they were written across the span of 2014. They started to be written on January 1st 2014 and were completed on December 31st 2014. The result of this is that the writer is able to fully capture the mood of First World War memorial celebrations and/or mourning, which is subtly woven throughout the Novels.
But, of course, the project overran, so the works were finally completed the following August.
Is it possible that the writer utilises a layered postmodernist arc as a celebration of 100 years of modernism? Certainly. Stories I and II combine to create a vivid experimental and aware tale of the transition between the modernism of an attack on the traditional story structure and the postmodernist reassessment of what the reader has just read; while Novels A to D experiment with the switch from two of the most famous Bloomsbury members to the inevitable ensemble story which everyone agrees is superior.
In essence, the Stories and Novels can be seen as a celebration of modernism; an anniversary. Modernism was born out of the disillusionment of the First World War, so in 2014 it makes sense to commemorate not just the war to end all wars, but the birth of modernism; and who better to use than Virginia Woolf?
So, then, this book is a centenary celebration of modernism through postmodernism.
But is the book postmodernist? Realism describes the world. Modernism questions the world. Postmodernism questions itself. This text could be viewed as postmodern only if it culminated with a section questioning itself.
One of the most popular starting points for postmodernism is 1941. With the death of Virginia Woolf came the symbolic death of modernism.
Of course, modernism never really died. Modernism simply melting into New Wave, then the New Wave gradually became mainstream until we developed a sort of cultural laziness whereby every art form recognises its duty to explore the character’s consciousness, but does so in the least depth possible.
Take Hollywood movies, for instance. While they used to focus solely on events in relation to a plot without recognising the character’s lives, now many films feature an internal monologue, but these monologues display only vague thoughts, and serve only to set up a dull plot, rather than acknowledging that the characters’ lives are the plot. But this is only a weak attempt to replicate the vast influence of modernism.
So, in a sense, anything which truly digs deep into a person’s very being may be said to be neo-modernism. But anything which explores being the surface levels of consciousness, and often beyond the pages of the book itself, may be said to be postmodern.
One of the peculiarities with using the introduction of postmodernism as the basis for featuring James Joyce and Virginia Woolf as characters is that the two were the originators of modernism. The author had no idea about their involvement with postmodernism.
One evening, while reading The Crying of Lot 49, the author looked into postmodernist literature and discovered it originated with the death of both the protagonists of Novel A – James Joyce and Virginia Woolf.
'Excellent,' e thought. 'This will fit perfectly with Novel A.'
I, the critic, decipher the code and unveil all o
f my own a new interpretation of the texts. That is how a critic strikes.
To me, the importance of 1941 as the death of James Joyce and Virginia Woolf, and the birth of postmodernism created a new age of literature which is being conceived in Novel A.
And perhaps the most postmodern of all is the way this critical essay is gradually losing the standard of academia and instead becoming a modernist stream-of-consciousness itself.
Or is the more postmodern detail the fact that I'm now debating with myself, and debating the postmodern properties of the postmodern text as I'm writing the introduction – the conclusion – to the postmodern text itself.
Perhaps I am exploring this in too much depth, considered 5. Or perhaps not enough. Maybe I should dig deeper and explore the glue which binds these pages together. Or the circuit board behind the screen; whatever the case may be.
One thing I noticed is how they never mention who the writers of Novels A to D are. They go on and on about the experience of what they're about, but they never actually mention who wrote them. I'm a little disappointed. I need to write that. I'll word it academically.
The discordant persistence displayed by such a manner of literary endeavour leads the reader to a disharmony erupting from unsatisfactory conclusions drawn from the creators' pursuits.
Too many disses. Or not enough.
When I read Story 2, I initially thought 3 was right. After reading Novel B, I agreed more with 4.
But I think that is part of the problem. Literature is never a right/wrong scenario. Great writing is fundamentally about exploring the nature of reality itself. When reading life itself in any level of depth, the reader inevitably comes to realise that only when
That was, of course, the founding principal of postmodernism.
Being a founding principal of postmodernism meant that the rejection of objective truth was also the founding principal of postpostmodernism, and postpostpostmodernism and postpostpostpostmodernism.
And, of course, these were the beliefs on which Story I was based, but more importantly the depth led to Story II, and formed a strong basis for Story III and Story IV. Of course, if the foundation of these ideas was the rejection of objective reality, so too was the postmodern doctrine the basis of Story V and Story VI, and Story VII should it exist, and so on and so forth until it was universally understood that rejecting objectivity was the basis of life itself.
5 realised e desperately needed to explore emself within the work. More depth meant more meaning, and the obvious intention of great literature was the quest for meaning.
Now let us take a moment to explore the writer of all this, wrote the writer, 5. Who or what is 5?
I think one of the key issues is working out who wrote the Novels. Obviously, I am reconstructing them based on evidence and samples here, but I am [perhaps] not the author.
The Novels would have to be written by someone who was keen in following the trends of literature. It could be Terry Eagleton, who ever has an eager eye for perceiving change in the world.
The Novels as the characters 3 and 4 read them, have been written by an unspecified author, or a series of unspecified authors. I am here recreating how I imagine them to appear, but the initial authors have not been specified.
But, then again, the writer behind the new reimaginings of the Novels has yet to be specified. Although I write here about my experience of rewriting them, my name is unspecified. I am 5, but beyond that, nothing is known.
However, I believe the leading argument is that Novels A to D were written by J. D. Salinger. He is one of the few authors who wrote in the classical style of aggression and clarity in equal measure (a trope which is frequently being killed off in favour of the lust for formulae), while still making it through to the 21st century. One of the rare Modernists not to die tragically young, Salinger continued writing creatively until his death in 2010.
Could it be, then, that Novels A to D are the long-awaited follow-ups to The Catcher in the Rye?
Just then, the [door/wall/window] opened with a [crash/creak/crowbar]. In [walked/strolled/ran/pogoed] four figures: 1, 2, 3 and 4.
5 [looked/glared/turned] round in a state of [shock/horror/expectation]. This was exactly what he had [expected/feared/ignored/never predicted].
‘What’s going on?’ 5 [asked/shouted].
‘Is that not obvious?’ asked 1. ‘We are here to [kill/love/save/help/abduct/ignore/stop/overthrow/guide] you.’
5 turned back to the sheet of paper on eir desk. It was a code, a cipher of sorts. A guide to who was whom. Based on the lists, 1 could either be James Joyce, Sarah from Essex, Sylvia Plath, or any number of partygoers.
‘But what do you want?’ asked 5.
‘Isn’t that obvious?’ asked 1 [5 was choosing for now to interpret 1 as being representative of James Joyce]. ‘We are here to [end/conclude/publish] [your life/this book].’
5 was utterly bewildered. For a postmodern critic to find a situation too complex was certainly a feat, particularly when only [seconds/minutes/years] earlier e had been writing about the [nature/artificiality] of his own [existence/fictionality] in relation to this book you are [reading/selling/burning].
‘Are you saying you want to publish my life?’ asked 5.
1 [nodded/screamed/shot a hole through the ceiling]. ‘That is one interpretation of what I said.’
5 was still confused. E had to keep consulting the lists on eir desk in an attempt to understand what was going on.
And so, 5 [the future Prime Minister of Britain, and the first non-Labour, non-Liberal, non-Tory, non-Conservative and non-Whig PM] worked himself or herself away into a rut of great depth. Layers upon layers of writing about the writers of the works e had just analysed.
'Why are you here?' 5 demanded to know.
'We're here,' said 3, 'to action you.'
'To action me?' 5 was either confused by the use of the word 'action' or its meaning.
'We need to make event happen in order to stop this novel.'
'Which novel?'
'This novel!'
'Novel A, Novel B, Novel C or Novel D?'
'This novel! [Virginia Woolf]!'
5 sat up in complete emotion. 5, [J. D. Salinger], had been expecting this to happen for so long, but never thought it would. 'You're trying to stop this novel? Why would you do that, 3?'
'Because we've reached the end. [Virginia Woolf] is going mad.'
'What else is new?' 5 asked [sadly/reminiscently/hilariously].
'Not Virginia Woolf the person; [Virginia Woolf] the novel.'
'Is it a novel?' asked 5. 'How long does a novel have to be?'
'At least 40,000 words, like,' said 3 [the Geordie newsagent].
'And how long is this book currently?'
'Nearly 40,000 words.'
'But why does it need to end?' cried 5. 'I've been enjoying it so far.'
'It's rambling. We want it to be novel length.'
'So why not let it reach 40,000 words?'
'We will do.'
'Then why are you pointing weapon [sawn-off shotgun/cheesewire/sabre/lollipop stick] at me?'
'To end the novel very soon,' said 3 [the Italian artist who invented rigatoni].
2 [Virginia Woolf] stepped forward to clarify. 'When it ends, it will have reached 40,000 words, making it the shortest possible novel.'
'What?'
'The general guideline for story length in the western world is that flash fiction is under 1,000 words, short stories are between (and including) 1,000 and 7,499 words, the rare novelettes are from 7,500 to 17,499, novellas are 17,500 plus, until you get to full novels at 40,000 words.'
'Why all the odd numbers?'
‘Because they cannot overlap,’ 2 [Virginia Woolf] explained.
‘Explain.’
‘If novelettes were works from 7,500 words to 17,500 words; and novellas were works from 17,500 words to 40,000 words; then where does that leave a work which is 17,500 words exactly?’
‘I don’t th
ink you’re using semicolons correctly;’ suggested 3.
‘Who would write a work exactly matching one of those numbers?’ asked 5.
‘We will. We must finish this work on exactly 40,000 words,’ said 1 [Sarah from Cheltenham].
'Why does it have to be exactly 40,000 words? Why not 42,193?'
'If we're going to be a very short novel, we may as well be the shortest ever novel,' said 1 [gleefully/through burning tears/using an electrolarynx to artificially clarify his or her speech after losing his or her voice box at the end of many years spent smoking].
[1 thought 'electrolarynx' was the most beautiful word in the entire book/1 hated the word 'electrolarynx'/1 was indifferent to the word 'electrolarynx'/1 had no idea the word 'electrolarynx' existed.]
'I feel we have to be either a painfully long book or the shortest novel possible. I don't know why I go to extremes,' said 3 [Billy Joel].
'Postmodern literature is always painful,' agreed 1 [James Joyce], 'but I'd rather be short and painful than long and painful.'
This was a point which all five of the characters had at some point considered. Was art getting gradually quicker to respond to society’s rapid needs? Fast food culture had brought a sense of immediate satisfaction; if a meal which in the Victorian Era would have taken a day to prepare now took a matter of minutes, why shouldn’t the same ring true for art?
A Victorian novel was at the very minimum 400 pages long. But if its ideas could be expressed in under 100 pages, what would be the point of all that additional length?
And, of course, it is possible to look in depth at every single element of a work of art to appreciate its true value, but is it necessary? If we are able to get as much pleasure from looking at two paintings quickly as looking at one painting slowly, why would we choose anything apart from the two paintings? If, indeed, we get, say, one unit of entertainment from looking a painting for 15 minutes, then the second unit of entertainment arrives after an hour of intense study of the painting, what is the best course of action in an art gallery?
To maximise profit as the capitalist demands, we should spend the hour looking at four paintings and receiving four units of entertainment.
But are those who seek artistic capital missing out on something? Maybe the second unit of entertainment is not just entertainment, but something else as well, such as understanding or awakening.
Maybe the second unit is not entertainment at all. Maybe the first 15 minutes provide a shallow thrill, but the full hour of analysis is something far beyond. Perhaps after the full hour, the viewer has gained a deep and powerful level of understanding. The hour of looking deep into the painting, seeing every brush stroke, and the tear or the shout which came as the brush hit the canvas, looking not simply at the picture on the surface, but using the canvas as a mirror to look deep into your own soul; perhaps that was the aim of the full hour, and the people who have never spent an hour looking at one painting could never possibly understand what it means to look beyond the image and see the endless layers of meaning.
But, of course, this is the modern mindset reviewing the classical mindset. Everything under a developed capitalist system must be seen entirely in respect to profit. The reason art films are less popular than superhero movies is that few people have the patience to watch an art film, particularly when a superhero movie costs almost no brainpower and delivers its results instantaneously.
So, then, does this ring true all the way? Are novels getting shorter out of laziness? Or are the lazy writers in fact those who write long novels, since the long-writers have put no effort into condensing their meaning.
And can one person really write the shortest novel ever, then go on to write novels which are hundreds of thousands of words long?
‘How do you determine word count?’
‘By the number of words.’
‘But what is one word? Is a hyphenated word one or two?’
‘The counter we used claimed it to be one. When it says “self-worth” and “one-to-one”, that counts as two words, not five.’
‘But what about words which are up for debate? “Book shelf” is here written as two words, but some people would insist that it is a single word, unspaced.’
‘We have written the words as they are. For “book shelf”, I believe we opted for two words.’
‘But words change, and publishers sometimes change too. There was a time in the 1800s when “tomorrow” was “to morrow”. Then it became “to-morrow”. Even books which were published will the earlier spellings are now reprinted with “tomorrow”. Lewis Carroll wrote many hyphens and spaces before semi-colons, which are now all gone. Even the word “semi-colon” itself is rapidly shrinking into “semicolon” as our faced paced internet society demands it. In the past twenty years we have seen “Electronic Mail” and its abridgement “E-mail” crushed into “email”.’
‘Even the Shakespeare works everyone believes so authentic have changed “For this reliefe much thanks, ‘tis bitter cold,/ And I am sicke at heart” into the slightly modernised “For this relief much thanks; 'tis bitter cold/ And I am sick at heart.” We lie to ourselves about the historical accuracy of reprinting old texts,’ said 1.
4 [Professor David Crystal] agreed. ‘All the nouns which were once capitalised as in German have now had Shakespeare’s punctuation removed. No works remain accurate for long.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked 2.
‘This book, [Virginia Woolf] is only 40,000 words for the time being. In future printings it may be slightly shorter, and it will lose novel status,’ 1 explained.
‘Then perhaps the novel status captures this particular moment in time, August 2015, where these spellings are standard, before they change with time.’
This seemed to satisfy the group, for they moved onto other arguments.
‘For one thing,’ said 3, ‘it’s unclear who wrote the Novels.’
Nervously, 5 picked up his notes, and showed them a point where he’d scribbled ‘Who wrote the Novels?’ several [months/weeks/days/hours/minutes/seconds] earlier. ‘Here,’ he stuttered. The writer then shuffled over to the [computer/typewriter/scroll/notepad] where he’d been compiling the collection/novel/felony known as [Virginia Woolf]. ‘I already addressed the fact that the authors of the Novels are never mentioned within Story II.’
‘No,’ said 3, ‘I mean that you appear to be writing the Novels A to D here, in your [office/toilet/prison cell]. From that we deduce that you wrote the Novels. I.e. somebody opening the published book [Virginia Woolf] will see the contents displayed as follows:
Story I … by L. T. Hewitt
Lists A to D … by L. T. Hewitt
Story II … by L. T. Hewitt
Novel A … by 5
Novel B … by 5
Novel C … by 5
Novel D … by 5
Story IV … by L. T. Hewitt
‘Okay,’ said 5 [Milan Kundera], uncertain what they were discussing by this point.
‘But you also describe how annoyed you were at having to read Novel B.’
5 had only just come to terms with the fact that 1, 2, 3 and 4 had come bursting into the room, and now was being held accountable for something 5 [the next Nobel Laureate in Literature] could not comprehend. ‘I’m not quite sure I see the problem there...’
‘How can you judge 3 based on her enjoyment of Novel B in Story II,’ asked 3, ‘when you yourself wrote it out of loose information left up to the imagination.’
The writer didn’t know what to say, and so – marking a sharp change from the standard attitude of clueless celebrities – didn’t say anything.
‘Perhaps,’ suggested 2 [Virginia Woolf], ‘when he was just described as “the writer” by whoever is narrating this work [presumably L. T. Hewitt], that was supposed to be an indicator that 5 is not only the writer of the Novels, but the writer of this novel ([Virginia Woolf]) itself.’ 2’s guess, although innaccurate, was worthy of praise primarily on the basis of 2’s questioning
attitude towards the whole of the literary construct.
‘See, you’re wrong!’ shouted 3.
‘What?’
‘The narrator,’ 3 spluttered. ‘Whoever it is who is writing the book we are currently in. The author of [Virginia Woolf], he just said you were wrong.’
‘Did he?’ asked 2.
‘Yes. “2’s guess, although inaccurate” – he’s saying you’re inaccurate!’
‘Who is the author of this book?’
‘I think he’s called L. T. Hewitt,’ said 4, referring to the author of this novel.
‘Wait, wait, wait,’ said 3. ‘L. T. Hewitt is a man?’
‘Stop it!’ screeched 1 [Virginia Woolf], pointing the [gun/crossbow] at 5. ‘We’re going too deep. It’s not meant to go this far! I cannot cope with these levels of postmodern metafiction!’
‘If you can’t cope,’ asked 5 [André 3000], ‘what on Earth are you doing here?’
‘I’ve already explained that.’ 1 was reasonable in her aggression – she had already explained her intentions. She or he was somewhat out of bounds, however, in his expression of this angst. ‘I’m here to make sure this book ends when we reach 40,000 words,’ 1 said. ‘And I wouldn’t describe this as angst.’
‘Are you counting the title amongst that?’ asked 4.
‘No, of course not,’ replied [Virginia Woolf].
‘What are you counting, then?’
‘Everything from the beginning to the end. Starting with the words ‘Story I’ and ending with the words ‘Virginia Woolf’.’
‘Now you’ve spoilt the ending for those reading!’ shouted 5.
‘It was pretty obvious how it was going to end,’ said 2 [Virginia Woolf]. ‘If it’s called [Virginia Woolf] and repeatedly says the phrase “Virginia Woolf”, it’s obviously going to end with “Virginia Woolf”.’
‘I suppose.’
4 had a realisation. ‘What happens if the book gets translated?’
‘What about it?’
‘Different languages have different numbers of words,’ said 4 [Sappho]. ‘In German, for instance, they use far fewer words.’
3 agreed. ‘The Germans merge all their words into one. So it’s quite likely that a book of 40,000 words in English might be only 30,000 words in German.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It would mean that the German version of [Virginia Woolf] isn’t long enough to be a novel.’
‘Oh no!’ shouted 2 [Virginia Woolf].
‘It’s okay, [Virginia Woolf],’ said 5 [Matthew Otis Hulke]. ‘We’ll just have to accept that this book is the shortest novel in the English language only.’
‘What if we give up on the English language?’
‘What?’ [shouted/laughed/shrieked] 2 [Virginia Woolf].
‘Someday we may move beyond the language. We may, as Earthlings, speak and read exclusively in Esperanto,’ suggested 5 [Myra Hindley].
‘So?’
‘So the Esperanto version of [Virginia Woolf] might not be a novel either,’ said 5 [L. T. Hewitt]. ‘And someday that will be the standard version of the book. A book which describes itself repeatedly as the shortest novel might someday be the world’s longest novella. Or maybe even the second-shortest novel.’
[Virginia Woolf] sighed.
‘Why is it the case that sometimes the number (e.g. 1) is provided, and sometimes only the substitute name (e.g. Virginia Woolf)?’ asked 3.
‘Who are you asking to answer that question?’ asked [Virginia Woolf].
‘See! It happened right there!’ exclaimed 3, before realising what had been asked of him, and responding, ‘Well, 5, I suppose.’
All eyes turned to 5. The man/woman/intersex/third gender was shuffling through his notes. He looked at the list and tried to identify them. 1, 2, 3 and 4 were all stood in front of him, but they all at times looked like Virginia Woolf.
‘I’m beginning to think,’ decided 5, ‘that it doesn’t matter what the person’s initial number was. Certainly not within the context of Story IV. By now, the readers will be well aware of the associations between numbers and characters.’
‘Which overall book do you mean?’ asked 3. In response, the other four people in the room sighed and shouted, ‘The book is [Virginia Woolf] by L. T. Hewitt!!’
[Virginia Woolf] was still confused. She turned to [Charles from Chelsea], and whispered, ‘So has 5 given up on calling us by our numbers?’
‘I think so,’ [Charles] replied.
‘Am I fixed perpetually as Virginia Woolf, then?’ [Virginia Woolf] asked.
‘Probably,’ replied [James Joyce/Charles/Jean-Luc].
[Virginia Woolf] was still puzzled regarding the supposed rules to this new parlour game. ‘So what about 3 and 4?’
‘What about them?’
‘They never had alternative identities. While the place-holders 1 and 2 stood in for names and personalities which were applied later, 3 and 4 were already characters with personalities and even genders, but no names.’
They were all largely confused. 5 [Terry Eagleton] was of the belief that this was precisely the point of the work. Why would anybody put any level of effort into a work which made sense?
‘All right! All right!’ said [Virginia Woolf], who at this point had given up on any attempt to understand the book in which she existed, and was instead attempting to work out whether ‘all right’ ought to be considered two words, as was standard in English grammar, or whether it had been formally contracted to ‘alright’, as was common in modern usage; in time, she thought, it would inevitably be the case that these spellings were changed; future reprints of [Virginia Woolf] would feature the contracted ‘alright’ form, along with other, unpredictable contractions, and the book would soon lose its status as the world’s shortest novel, instead becoming the world’s longest novella; or perhaps the status of a novel would gradually be shortened; as modern tastes desired high speeds, in food and technology, the public were less able to handle lengthy novels, certainly lengthy novels with deep meanings, as [Virginia Woolf] would be later described; so the fast-paced mind of the public might at some point require critics and theorists to redefine a novel as something shorter; maybe 30,000 words, so it would include Animal Farm and Of Mice and Men; or something even shorter; maybe someday a novel would be something inconceivably different; a combination of images and pictures to make a quicker, but deeper experience; maybe graphic novels will take precedence over 40,000-word novels; maybe emoticons will become an accepted part of English literature; maybe traditions will change; maybe cinema and literature will merge into a new hybrid; maybe the world of 2500 AD will be so impossibly different from the world of 2015, that the concepts referred to in all books up to this point will be unrecognisable, and all forms of art will be unimaginably distorted; maybe we cannot predict the future, but the world we live in now, thought [Virginia Woolf], accepts, on the whole, that a novel is 40,000 words or more, and my aim is to fix our work on this point; [Virginia Woolf] picked up her [gun/bazooka/flamethrower/bow and arrow/helmet/novel/pen/pencil/pestle and mortar/armband/hosepipe/husband Leonard/torch] and used it.
Something happened which prevented anyone understanding what had happened. Depending on how the reader interpreted [Virginia Woolf]’s action, the [building/novel/universe] in which the characters existed was on fire, still standing, falling to pieces, or any number of other horrific or perfect or neutral outcomes.
[Virginia Woolf] looked at 5, and 5 looked at [Virginia Woolf]. Or, at least, 5 thought e did. E had no idea what was happening. As eir role was to identify what was happening in the world around em, 5 endeavoured to interpret the event as accurately as possible, whilst making note of ‘endeavour’ as a useful word to use in future writing should he survive whatever event was happening to or around em.
By this point, 5 [L. T. Hewitt] was crawling around on the floor, looking for pieces of paper to guide him, searching for lists, piecing together clues, but getting nowhere, finding nothing, and discov
ering that for all he/she tried, no-one could ever make sense of this [hell-hole/utopia] we live in and die in, and that – for all we search – no meaning would ever be found anywhere in the bitter, senseless world; 5 eventually found a piece of paper (the only thing to guide em), for all the other lists had been [burnt/eaten/demolished/transported/stolen], and all that was written on the single piece of paper left was 'Virginia Woolf'.
This was why it was so difficult to understand what was happening. 5 looked up, hoping to see the once hated but now hope-dispensing figures of 1, 2, 3 and 4.
In their place, e saw [Virginia Woolf], [Virginia Woolf], [Virginia Woolf] and [Virginia Woolf]. Of course, there were not four separate [Virginia Woolf]s, or perhaps there were. There might instead have been one [Virginia Woolf] in the [Virginia Woolf] room, or there might have been sixty-five million copies of [Virginia Woolf] filling the [Virginia Woolf].
‘What the [Virginia Woolf] is happening in here?’ asked [Virginia Woolf].
‘I don’t know,’ [Virginia Woolf] said [Virginia Woolf]ly. ‘[Virginia Woolf] is all very confusing. [Virginia Woolf] is the most [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] I have ever seen with my very own [Virginia Woolf].’
5 was lost on [Virginia Woolf], interpreting everything e [Virginia Woolf]ed as being [Virginia Woolf]. This was particularly [Virginia Woolf] when [Virginia Woolf] consider the problem with the [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]ed that this would increasingly be the [Virginia Woolf] case, as the [Virginia Woolf] was steadily becoming [Virginia Woolf] more [Virginia Woolf].
Since [Virginia Woolf] was now not only every [Virginia Woolf] noun. but also every [Virginia Woolf]adjective and every [Virginia Woolf] adverb, [Virginia Woolf] had very little [Virginia Woolf] hope for the [Virginia Woolf] future.
Soon, [Virginia Woolf] would be [Virginia Woolf] every [Virginia Woolf] word, and there would not [Virginia Woolf] even [Virginia Woolf] to stop [Virginia Woolf] from [Virginia Woolf].
As of the end of this sentence (and not including the title), the phrase ‘Virginia Woolf’ had appeared in this novel [Virginia Woolf] will have appeared (including appearances within brackets and without) 181 times.
Only [Virginia Woolf] knows what that [Virginia Woolf] will be by the [Virginia Woolf] of this [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] will [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] was taking over. The very [Virginia Woolf] of postmodern [Virginia Woolf] was killing [Virginia Woolf] by [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
‘[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf],’ [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. ‘[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]!’
‘[Virginia Woolf],’ [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. ‘[Virginia Woolf]! [Virginia Woolf]! [Virginia Woolf]!’
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf]! [Virginia Woolf]! [Virginia Woolf]!
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]!
¡[Virginia Woolf]!
[Virginia Woolf]
[Virginia Woolf]
[Virginia Woolf]
[Virginia Woolf]
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]
‘[Virginia Woolf] “[Virginia Woolf] ‘[Virginia Woolf] “[Virginia Woolf] ‘[Virginia Woolf]’ [Virginia Woolf]” [Virginia Woolf]’ [Virginia Woolf]” [Virginia Woolf]’
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]. [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]! [Virginia Woolf]? [Virginia Woolf]? [Virginia Woolf]? [Virginia Woolf]?
[Virginia Woolf], ‘[Virginia Woolf]’
[Virginia Woolf]. [Virginia Woolf], [Virginia Woolf], [Virginia Woolf]: [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf]; [Virginia Woolf].
[Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf] [Virginia Woolf]
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