Yes, it’s true. I am being silently persecuted by the German regime for “inverting the reality,” and I’m facing five years in the hole.
Everywhere else on the planet, I am safe. Not just in the place I was born.
You may not know this about me, but as a teen, I was precocious. I tried to make a difference and wrote a regime-change classic at 19. I used half my brain, and it still got me into Oxford, Peking, Tokyo, and Harvard later. Just like that.
The papers never wrote about me. A terrifying anomaly. A conspiracy to silence me.
But this, this is even bigger. It’s my metamorphosis from just being a teen quell into a force of nature. Someone who will be taken seriously after the facts.
Powers manifest from abuses we endure, this much we know. Hemingway was dressed as a girl, drunk and violent all the time, before pouring his guts onto the page.
Nietzsche was self-destructive. A nerd with long hair who never had healthy relations with women.
We write on and on until something terrible happens to us. Then we write some more. Bullshit’s about money and fame:
Giordano Bruno wrote his best heresy in confinement. Marx, in abhorrent poverty. Cioran, in the kitchen.
We write from abuse and neglect. From torture and the fear of prison cells. We write for nobody but dread.
Years ago, I fell asleep on the sofa in that awful woman’s house and woke up unable to find my thoughts. It must have been a stroke.
You know what I did then? Nothing. I dragged it out. After a few months, I could talk straight again, though it was more like ranting.
I couldn’t hold a peaceful debate or recite a speech. Traveling was unthinkable. But writing? Well, the words glued themselves to the screen, and I pushed forward.
On and on, I had to complete The Menticide Manual, the deadliest text on how to kill the mind.
You must read it now, my Dear Friend. How could you not. It’s terrifying. Here is the next installment of horror and despair with the aptly name and title ‘the Quibblers’…
