THE HUNDREDTH PAGE

Life is simpler now. There is no longer a television set nor radio. The world outside is irrelevant. What we need of it is here in the house. It has been processed for us by publishing geniuses and publishing idiots, poets and panderers.

Our life of man and books makes no demands. My relationships are polygamous thousands and thousands of times over.

We, the books and I, are high on the hill in the house as the sun goes down. We sit amidst them and look out at the fading landscape. It is winter light. The sky turns gray, brightens again, then fades to purple and nothingness.

The books and I have seen much since the last long day of winter. We have seen the cruel final destruction of my novel, the arrival and departure of the strange boy from nowhere, the beginnings of our revenge program. Do not doubt that the books are helpmates, as much a part of the program as I, for it is one of their own who was damaged by the fools on the island. My associates, shelved and stacked about me, surely vow revenge as much as I.

The nuts have been sequestered away, the cave made soft for slumber, the wood stacked high for burning. It is our winter of contentedness.

There is much for us, the books and me, to do, as you shall see.