Бесплатный фрагмент - 7H3 13773R5

Foreword

I wrote a great novel. What makes you think so, you will ask. Well, because this novel is certainly the least meaningful from everything that has ever been written in the history of humanity. It totally lacks information. It just sucks. What do you mean, you will ask. That would be the «Black square» of literature. And me — the Malevich of literature, who discovers a gate to the unknown for you. Me too, just like him, did something everyone could have done. Each one of you could have drown a square on a white sheet of paper and fill it in black. Same way I did what everyone could have done but for some reason — didn’t care to do. What did you do, you will ask. Here’s what! Put my headphones on. Turn the volume to the max. I was listening to my favorite music — «Four Seasons» by Antonio Vivaldi. I started typing on the keyboard, just pressing random keys… As soon as the music was over, I knocked off the typing. That is how this novel was born. What I felt while writing the novel? Oh, I felt the strongest emotions — joy, enthusiasm, ecstasy. I was fully aware that I wasn’t the one typing. It was the universe getting in touch with humanity — no agents, no mediators. I am just the transmitter of something.

The letters were shot onto a sheet of paper — just like a pro, I typed really fast. Like the champ stenographer. I was proud of myself. I wrote a novel in less than 45 minutes. It’s probably worth having this record in the book of Guinness, but I didn’t really had it assessed. After all, I was just the monkey that …… well obviously — didn’t write War and Peace, but here’s what… Some nonsense novel, you will ask. No — this is an illustration for the very simple truth — any text is just a set of signs. You know the regular texts, they are composed of existing words, arranged according to particular rules. And they always need to make sense. Well — sometimes you have to put in some thinking to find it. In my book, nothing makes sense, or eventually one thing. That one thing! The limits of literature are now set to infinity. Everything is allowed. You can try to make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense. You don’t have to read the text, you can simply stare at it. You don’t have to acquire the information partially, you can absorb it as an entity. You don’t have to translate it by the means you know. You can talk about that to the end of the world. I am now ending the foreword. Have a nice time… well — not reading, but perceiving my novel «7H3 13773R5». And there is only one thing you can perceive. Only love. And nothing else.

Best regards,

Roman Ouroboros

7H3 13773R5