We’ll begin with something new, though Blake Butler’s cum soaked, blood rag of a novel is much older than it seems. Here we find the screaming of John of Patmos were he stranded in the suburban soul desert instead of entertaining snake visions on an island. I’m sure They’re all howling and pissing about plot and sympathetic characters. Fuck Them. A well plotted book may as well be a television script if it lacks the poetry of a rocket punch to the asshole. I was overjoyed when my mind went away while reading Butler’s work. I don’t aim to follow stories. I aim to be buried alive in beauty. And who sympathizes truly with a construct?
I grin at the world when texts as strange and perverse as Butler’s can be find at bookstores on the normal side of town, hoping that a few weird teenagers might pick it up and a few less might understand: writing is not just about plot twists, tweaking the emotional response center of the homogenized, or even about saying what you feel to be true. Writing is about language. It is about letting language grow out of its bounds and become sentient and powerful once again. It is about taking our words back from the censors and the lawyers and the academic poets and turning it back into what it once was: power to shape the world.
I will not go as far to say that 300,000,000 does this perfectly, but at least Butler seems to understand what is at stake. At least he has the spine to spit turds in the eyes of his on-lookers.