Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories  April 2013 | issue 448

It Is No Longer Necessary To Write Novels

by Sparrow

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Sparrow lives in a doublewide trailer in the tiny hamlet of Phoenicia, New York. Recently a fifteen-year-old boy handed him a four-leaf clover. You can follow him — Sparrow, not the boy — on Twitter (@Sparrow14).

I THINK IT WAS Jorge Luis Borges who said that it was no longer necessary to write novels; it was sufficient to write the review of the novel. I say it’s no longer necessary to write novels; you may just write the first line.

I woke up, smelled the coffee, then lay in bed for three hours.

Using my phone, I took a picture of my camera.

I know who I am, but I don’t know whom I am.

I am the outgoing president of the Extroverts Association.

I’m allergic to alcohol: every time I drink it, I get lightheaded and befuddled.

I listen to the still small voice mail.

I live in a mobile home: my body.

My narcissism is much more extreme than yours.

God is love, but love is not God.

For six months, drugs can make you a better person.

I am a Marxist, in the sense that I love saying, “I am a Marxist.”

I like being the center of inattention.

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