This is Not a Novel and Other Novels

But now here, here David Markson intervenes, with his character Author:

Not that rearranging his notes means that Author has any real idea where the book is headed, on the other hand.

What we have is fiction, comprised of fact and hearsay and words already written, whether transcribed exactly or not, repeated by David in a different order, appropriated for the purpose of making a new creature sent out to join up with those who already exist.

Among the questions David implies is this: Does it matter who said what, or that the thing was said?

But they are all words, the images conjured up, but off the page, the collage—if it’s even an appropriate comparison—assembled horizontally, for the eye to scan from left to right.

He really shuffled those cards: a quote from Diogenes; a little-known fact about Baudelaire (“Baudelaire wore rouge”). (They really were cards; his notes were kept on index cards. Many, many.) So in some ways he was a collector, and metaphorically speaking I suppose he had to eventually glue his sentences down in what he considered the best possible order.

We, in these fragmented times, with our reputed short attention spans and our belief that with enough intellectual coaxing anything can be made to fit with everything, react positively to “collage.” People love to compare writing to visual art, though