Letters

Jolly good show at puncturing the inflated snootery of these snotty epistleists. All writers should be flogged until they bloody well bleed. Every damned one of them. And the ones that write the most should be flogged the hardest. Why all those words of theirs and this snooterical attitude that the longer it is and the more often one refers to a dictionary the better it is?

Don't they realise this mortal coil is finite? Do they think we have time for all that reading instead of living. The snooteriness of them is what gets my goat. It really does. Why use thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words when one will do to sum up everything very nicely? Gosh!!

Why should shops be full with their loneliness? To walk into a bookshop is the most depressing experience available to man...worse by far than walking into a mortuary. The places stink with self-indulgence and this rotten notion that they think they have anything to say that is the slightest interest to anyone other than he or she with so much time on their hands that they haven't yet twigged that they are headed for the alimentary canals of worms and pretty bloody quickly in the overall scheme of things. What turgid tract of masturbatory ink-spilling ever told the poor demented reader anything that he or she couldn't see quite clearly for themselves by going to the window and gazing upon the street at the antics of their fellows?

When I think of them sitting at their typewriters banging out these vile and despair-inducing exhibitions of loneliness I see the darkest darkness of a man's insides seconds before it is exposed to the glare of daylight by the bus they haven't noticed approaching them. Dammit! What I want them all to understand is this, that what vacuous inanities have occurred to them could interest only those even more vacuous than themselves (yes! yes! I know! An hypothetical fantasy). This means other writers. So keep up the good work and bear with me as I explain in brief what should be done to these brown bags of soup-filled puffery. My God, if I had a pound for every.....*

Name and address supplied

Pressures on valuable space preclude me from printing the remaining 700 pages of Mr P***o's very interesting letter. Rest assured that it was interesting in a way that most things that aren't interesting are not interesting.

Zoz