I always knew narrative was oppressive—narrowing things down to one or even a thousand perspectives is still an abridgment of infinity. I have real pity for fictional characters, the clueless dupes of dramatic irony—especially the female creations of male novelists, the Lolitas, Caddies, Bovaries ontologically fucked with, their every foible delectably plated. Hester Prynne didn’t have to get preggers, Miss Mowcher didn’t have to have cankles, Winnie Verloc didn’t have to die—except to serve their narratives, of which they’re denied basic awareness. Vessels for the writer’s outlook, for the
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