I don’t believe there can be fiction without truth. All truth is wrapped up in fiction, done up in pretty little hardcover parcels. People who are oblivious to realities other than their own unwrap them, praising literature as though it is some big prestigious thing. Books are not scholarly. They are the result of quietly corrupted minds.
I remember in school some years back the quote “all literature seeks to reveal truth”. Actually, all literature seeks to reveal secrets the writer can’t acknowledge. Secrets are disguised in enigmatic words and delicate punctuation. The truth is concealed, edited, fabricated and dressed up before being sent to the publishing office for further exploitation. I don’t condemn these lies, which are somehow truths in themselves. In fact I am a practised liar. In pretending no-one will decipher the truth within the fiction (or hoping that they will) I let go of my secrets and allow any uncertainty, fear or indulgence - it is mostly indulgence - to be flushed out with the ink spilling from the pen.
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