One gains a certain weary satisfaction from writing possibly the least-commented upon – and, thence, possibly least-read – blog on the interweb. For, with the excision of items of interesting and not entirely misdirected Spam, my Comments tally has fallen to ten. Not bad, for three months’ work. (I should mention that five of them are my own, customarily jocose dismissals of the banal Comments of the other four, each of whom is, I am sorry to say, a person I know or love. Plus, that is, one item of Spam I have kept because she seemed so nice, even if she hasn’t read the blog.)
Themindbogls stands therefore quite, quite alone as a substantial body of work, slotting the author firmly into the pigeonhole of colleagues down the centuries whose efforts have gone unsung in their lifetime. I can look forward with pleasure to posthumous celebrity, without the bother of having to turn up in person to festivals and awards ceremonies, book-signings, dinners, readings, late-night TV crit. shows, panel games, fatwas and all the paraphernalia of modern literary success.
The one thought that troubles me is reincarnation. What if… there is a small group of souls doomed forever to return to the world as unsuccessful writers in their own lifetime, and I am one of them, the spirit of Thomas Chatterton, Kafka, Vasily Grossman, Bramwell Bronte and “what’s-‘is-name”? Gordon Brown.
Suddenly, life feels more than ever like a Greek myth.