Wall of Words
Where are the pictures? I can’t just look at a bunch of words. Where are the pictures? This isn’t 1865. This isn’t 1645. This isn’t even 1945. Haven’t you heard? Somebody invented the moving picture. The Silver Screen. Technicolor, Panavision, Cinemascope. There are images flickering across screens the size of walls and you ask me to buy one of your thousand page novels and spend the next month turning it, page by tedious page, when I can pay ten bucks, wander scatterbrained into a Cineplex, gobble down popcorn, sugar drinks, and Jujubes while the director spoon feeds me a titillating story of his choosing? I need pictures. Haven’t you heard men are hard-wired to respond to pictures? Hell,
why do you think we prefer Playboy to poetry?
Where are the pictures, you ask? Where are the pictures? The pictures are within this wall of words as you call it. But they are also within your skull. The author may be the cameraman, but you are the revealing fluid. And you have to do more than stare in horror at his wall of words. You have got to explore those words with the same intensity you reserve for the exploration of airbrushed tits and clits. Sorry, but you do have to make some effort.
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