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But this administration has floated the usual white lies about which of her 26 reviews Gertrude Stein was pleased more often than it has taken into consideration the ineffable anguish of the rest of us, the suffering of the multitudes destroyed by the other twoand-a-half dozen reviews. In this capacity, I have compiled an endless list, not only of objects of our mass destruction but of my own ineffable suffering under them. Here I publish the following with grave reservations but nonetheless with a certain crude solace. I pray only that the book reviewers of America will take enough interest in my sacrifice to make this request of them. Perhaps I may still be able to survive if those darn White House rats, the Great American Book Reviewers, actually stopreviewing, thereby destroying the homes, livelihoods, andCultural Lifestyles (what is a Cultural Lifestyle other than a soft subversion of one’s own humanity?) of myself and my race. P.S.: I love America, mine.
Gertrude Stein promised to agree with me that one’s own turd is the best turd only when one can make money out of it. But though it is as stupid and meaningless as anything I have ever written, the enormous sale of my book on Turds has allowed me to make one last feeble gesture toward some residual value system, by sending a check to the American Academicians for Intellectual Freedom, so that its fine men among the white American males of my own culture may be afforded the luxury of the same freedom they delightful ghettoes when they want to denounce the raunchy Black and Hispanic lifestyle I lead.
But there are white book reviewers who are ganged up and gathered together in packs, though they don’t like that, and try to tear some other writer apart — i.e., male me — as though to make some sort of point with the writers of their own race, be it about sexism, about class warfare, about racism against blacks, chicano-espa ol, indian or womens, or about capital punishment. What do these sandstorms of words amount to? And what of the fact that those writers of their own race usually find the claptrap it emits quite boring, since they have seen its like a thousand times before? It is very much like the problem Winston Smith had in Orwell’s 1984 with Big Brother talking and talking, for weeks on end, about the lives of the heroes and heroes of classical Catholicism on a screen, day and night. It was very boring, but you didn’t dare tell anyone because it might get you killed.



