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The trouble with fiction,” said John Rivers, “is that it makes too much sense. Reality never makes sense.” “Never?” I questioned. “Maybe from God’s point of view,” he conceded. “Never from ours. Fiction has unity, fiction has style. Facts possess neither.
In silence, an act is an act is an act. Verbalized and discussed, it becomes an ethical problem, a casus belli, the source of a neurosis.
