This Blue Ball

The following is supposed to be a novel. The text is not my own; it was signed over to me by a man unknown to me beyond a few scattered emails. When his first email arrived, I was surprised that it got through my spam filter. “I’ve tried several times before,” he admitted. “Whapterhy in the world,” I replied, “would you give this to me to post it online? Why not post it yourself?” “Because,” he wrote back, “for me it is not fiction. But it must be fiction, and so someone like you, who could never believe in its contents, has to be the author.” “I am not the author,” I sent back to him, rather indignant, “and I would never present myself as such. In fact, if I were to post this, then only with our exchange prepended.” Almost immediately, he replied: “That is perfect. Your reluctance will provide the very evidence I need; nothing could appear more fictional than the full truth.”

We communicated a few more times, but I could make no more sense of what he wrote me than what I’ve picked out above. I suggested a pen name or anonymous publication, but he insisted that such border fictions would not help with the fundamental one. When he finally sent me the document, I couldn’t help myself, first from reading the whole thing, then from suggesting a number of changes and edits for readability. He accepted them wholesale, and concluded: “Now the text belongs to you.” None of my subsequent emails were answered; the email address ceased to exist. His name proved to be a dead-end.

I’ve researched as much as I can without seeing any piece of the text confirmed or even suggested in reality. None of it appears under anyone else’s name. Still, it is against my better judgment that I share the document, more or less as it was shared with me. It is protected – and freed – by a Creative Commons license. Make of it what you will.

Note: Go read the last page to see the preamble. It is the 39th entry, but was placed first in the text. Read it now, or when you’ve finished the text, or both.

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