Shit. Now I’m a fan boy. I’ve been reading William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition and it’s really good. I’m not going to review it as I am not into the review blogs, but I am going to wrangle with it. He drops half snippets of Yates and uses acronyms for obscure philosophies that he doesn’t explain and I am catching all these curve ball references given in shorthand. For every caught ball my brain hands out a little serotonin pleasure cookie and I am left wondering who his audience is.

In feeling like it’s personal I have to ironically conclude that I am one of a type. This is mass appeal mass marketed pulp on the surface, but there have to be vast hoards of more than moderately well informed readers for this Spruce Goose to fly. Or is the illusion that catching allusions makes us well informed, when our true condition is that we are conditioned and he’s just pushing the preprogrammed buttons. It’s the question all would be novelists must ask themselves, is literature a middle class psychosis? We are a small and shrinking market kids, the creative class in indentured servitude to the loans and credit debt that perpetuate fictions of station and material comfort. Anyway that's me. You?