The introduction to my book..language warning

[Gbn]

As above, I have a long short story, or short novella writen, about 38k words. It is full of bad language, for a reason, which, to be fair might not be obviously in the introduction....which is labelled epilogue....its that kind of book...

If anyone would like to read it, or another chapter, let me know....


Epilogue.

Ok, so those amongst you of a literary bent will notice an immediate error with this fuckin book. The epilogue, I hear you smugly proclaim, should be at the end of a piece of literary work. I know that. I’m not an idiot. You will find this out. It can come from the French épilogue, from Latin epilogus, or from Ancient Greek, epilogos. Basically, all these fancy words mean is it’s meant to come at the fuckin end. A prologue should come at the start, an epilogue at the fuckin end. Well fuck all that bollocks. You lucky people don’t have to wait till the end to find out what happens. I’m gonna tell you all right now. Artistic suicide? We will see.

It all works out well. In the end. Not for everyone, obviously. I live in the real fuckin world. Now if you picked up this book because it’s called ‘English and Philosophy, MA’, you’re in for a shock. It’s not a study book. But don’t throw it away, read it anyway. You might fuckin learn something. Like I said, it all works out well. In the end. Baz ends up running the security and the money lending. Only we call it debt management. Debt mismanagement more like, otherwise why would the fuckers keep having to borrow from us? We still do very well out of it, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fuckin fix it. You’ll like Baz. One of the best. Big Deano and Suave Gav, who only appear in one chapter, bought a few clubs between them. They do well out of it. And so do me an Baz. How? Running their fuckin doors, obviously. They always did well anyway, but the clubs are cherries on their ever expanding cakes. Big Chris? He’s still in Australia. He gets a few credits in the book, but he isn’t actually in it. Why? Cos he’s in fuckin Australia, you not listening? Things didn’t end well for Murph or Vincent, poor tortured soul that he was. Mr Younger? I dunno if he is happy wherever he is, but he moved on with surprisingly little trouble. In the end.

My Mrs is still a fuckin lioness. She doesn’t feature in the story at all, cos that’s my private life, and good luck to any of you who wanna stick your fuckin noses into it. She is with me all the way through the book, and my life. The poem ‘The Lioness’ is about her. That’s not in this book, you’ll have to buy one of my collections of poetry if you wanna read that. My daughter? Again, not in the book but with me all the way through it. She’s a lioness too. Only she doesn’t know it yet. Every fucker else does though. She had little option, what with her mum being a lioness and me being me. And what about me? Like I told you. Things worked out well. In the end. I study English and Philosophy now. I write the odd book. I write poetry. I’ve written one or two plays. It’s kinda like therapy for me. I even got involved in casting some films and working on the the odd screenplay. It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. The money is ok I guess, but if I’d wanted to make real money, I’d have stayed on the road I was heading down instead of getting off the fuckin merry go round when I did. John Lennon sings about that. He is in the book, briefly. Didn’t work out to well for him. In the end. But you knew that, didn’t you. Still, cunt finally got some peace from Yoko fuckin Ono. Every cloud and all that. I don’t do the doors anymore, but I stayed involved in running things. I’m not exactly a silent partner in our business. People like me are never fuckin silent. But fuck me, we do well out of it. Which is why I don’t need to do much work in films. Honestly, the fuckin people are unbearable! Oh and I know I still swear too much. Less excusable now I’m leaning toward academia I guess, but like I said, I live in the real fuckin world. And I still prefer Nietzsche to Descartes. Least I’m consistent. Which is more than he ever fuckin was.

Quentin Tarrantino is doin fine. Sure he puts his name to some turkeys, but then he also makes stuff like Django Unchained, which everyone thought was excellent. I thought it was a bit overrated, but hey, I plough a lonely fuckin furrow sometimes. I’v shot people and they don’t make nearly the fuckin mess they do in Django. I suppose that is a fairly fuckin minor, and extremely personal, criticism, but I like my films to be right. You will find that out. As for Ray Winstone, Craig Fairbrass, Vinnie Jones, Tamar Hassan and Danny fuckin Dyer, to name but a few? They’re all doing well. I think Hassan and Dyer make a straight to DVD film every three and a half weeks. Still playing characters they may or may not be. Which is what this book is about. Kinda. My character will read this verbatim, straight to camera, in the film. Like a soliloquy. He does that a lot in the book, speak straight to camera. You might be thinkin, what kind of book is this? How can a character speak straight to camera in a book? The clue should really have been that the epilogue is at the fuckin start. That’s the kind of book this is. Way I see it is, you all know how it pans out. How it ends. Bit like life. I mean, we all know how that fuckin ends. It ends. But we live it anyway. When we realize that the one thing we can’t avoid in life is death, we would be as well jumping off a cliff or something equally fatal and final. We know the end. But we wanna know how we get there. Well you have just read the epilogue to this book. And I really shouldn’t have to say this again, but it all works out well for us. In the end. Wanna know how we get there? Read the fuckin book.

[Gbn]

Any comments on this as a preamble to the main text?

[David]

Any comments on this as a preamble to the main text?

Only this: I quite like it, as far as it goes. That is, I wasn't put off by the sheer ineptness of the writing, which is what I find often happens when prose is posted here. (By which I mean that it's not inept, not that it is inept but that didn't put me off.)

On its suitability as a preamble to the main text? Not a bally clue. Although I don't automatically rule out reading more. The name-dropping is pretty tiresome - does anybody really care about the narrator's opinion of Quentin Tarantino and his bands of players? - and the tone is more than a bit hectoring. But overall it's really all right.

[Gbn]

Thanks man...the name dropping is integral to the main text. It is, as you suggest, written in a first person smart arse tone for a reason...the narrator is rarely himself,, he is a composite of everything he has ever seen, read, or heard...which is the point of the book...we cannot escape from viral culture and it seeps into our life...the narrator/ writer even puts in chapters about how to direct this as a film. I think it makes a relevant point in a satirical, yet funny manner....the story is full of quotes from films, philosophers etc ..distiller into one story so it can be a bit overbearing, but again, I think this is integral to the point. An analogous representation of today's society as infected by viral culture. It is written in a tone meant as one of a guy Ritchiesque film, but again, that, I think, suits the point of the work. I will send you it for a read if you like as criticism is always welcome, Gbn,

Around 35k words so not a a mammoth task if you fancy it, although I appreciate people are busy and have their own lives.thanks again, any criticism good or bad is very helpful, gbn

[Ros]

I found the 2nd para the most interesting, because it says something about what to expect from the book, something about the people and its world. It's too early in the text to care about the narrator's views on john lennon or tarrantino.

I find the swearing gets tiring very very quickly. It's ok briefly for effect, but I think you'd have to come up with some other way of showing the character than to continue it.

Just my few thoughts.

Ros

[k-j]

I think the voice is fairly convincing, or at least consistent. But if the whole book is really this guy "speaking straight to camera" then I wouldn't want to read it. The voice is just so in your face with the staccato sentences and the effing and jeffing. Works well, however, for a prologue (or epilogue if you prefer!).

[Gbn]

I have edited a few swear words out of main text, and yet.. people talk like this in real life. In my life anyhow...a good exclamation Mark but a poor coma I was advised once...but I am trying to convey real life as it is, not as I'd like it to be..the main characters are not nice people...and there is not a happy, or karmic ending...but, give it a shot if you like
Thank you do much for your comments, I take them all in board and in explaining myself I am not disagreeing with points raised...Gbn

[k-j]

people talk like this in real life.

Sure, but 38,000 words of it is just a bit much whether in real life or a book. Maybe you could have chapters/passages of this voice intermixed with third-person narrative or other voices? But I realise I'm asking you to basically start again, so not much help.

In my life anyhow

Perhaps the 'n' in your username should be an 'h'? Ha ha....

the main characters are not nice people...and there is not a happy, or karmic ending...

Again, that's totally fine, happy endings are usually dull and "not nice people" are often the best characters.

Thank you do much for your comments, I take them all in board and in explaining myself I am not disagreeing with points raised...Gbn

You're welcome.

[Gbn]

It's interesting you'r comment because I had thought of interspersing it with another voice, perhaps another of the characters presenting the same situations in their words..a duality that when analysed May present a commonality from where we can derive the truth..

[Gbn]

Once again, apologies for the swearing which, on refelection is a bit gratuitous, but here is my final chapter, which kind of explains the point I'm trying to illustrate in the other 19 chapters....your comments have been very useful, and much appreciated, positive or negative....

Chaper 20, epiphany, culture, it all works out well, in the end.

Believe me when I say this, but the back of Vincent’s head coming off was never part of my plan. I had honestly expected him to take the money and disappear into a cloud of self pity, maybe drink himself to death, or die of a drug overdose. He had nobody, nothing to live for. Vincent wasn’t strong enough mentally to recover from what had just passed. I could see all this in his eyes. He was a four line obituary in the local paper just waiting to happen. Or, a newspaper headline which ended in ‘before turning the gun on himself.’ Fuck that. The worrying thing was that Vincent had been a decent upstanding citizen until circumstances out with his control, circumstances from a world he didn’t even understand, conspired to turn him into a killer two rungs from the bottom of the ladder. I didn’t wanna see Vincent on the bottom rung. Cunt had potential to be very fuckin dangerous down there. Anyhow, like I said earlier, Vincent gave me my way out. How so? My epiphany was simple. It hit me like an express train. I knew circumstances had conspired to put Vincent in that office. Circumstances out with my control, although brought about by interpretation of an image I had carefully cultivated over the years, had ultimately brought me to the office. What about Mr Younger? Had he been what he himself would describe as a smart young man with morals, with ambition, who thought himself different to others? Had circumstances out with his control locked him into the life he thought he had chosen? Could I become like Mr Younger if I didn’t get off the fuckin merry go round? Fuck that too. Nietzsche warned that he who fights monsters every day must take care not to become a monster himself. I realised I was more than halfway fuckin there. I often wondered how Nietszche figured that out, crazy fucker. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra he exhorts his readers to build their houses on the slopes of Vesuvius. He was a fuckin philosophy professor at a Swiss university! What did he know about fighting monsters and living on the fuckin edge? Clearly not heard of Location, Location fuckin Location either.

I touched on Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s theory about life unfolding before us, and how we adapt to this phenomenon. Well, fuck that too. I had always thought that life unfolded how I wanted it to. Up till now. But I looked around and saw what life had made of the assembled cast of characters and wondered how much control we actually have over how life unfolds. I wanted to take control of my life. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson in Scorcese’s excellent The Departed, I didn’t want to become a product of my environment, I wanted my environment to become a product of me. I wanted to roll the universe up in a ball, throw it before me and use it all. T.S. Fuckin Elliot again by the way, I told, you we would come back to him. So Vincent had to go so I could start again. All this occurred to me in a flash. The second part of my epiphany was even stranger. It occurred to me that we might in fact merely be a collective consciousness of positive and negative energy, and that our positive and negative behaviour is merely a projection of this collective energy. If this is fuckin true, we are only harming ourselves when we project negativity outwards, as due to the collective nature of our consciousness, outward projection is the same as inwards. What we give is what we fuckin get. Looked at like this, my life up till that point was veering towards negative fuckin equity. I’m a decent geezer. I fuckin am. But I’v done some bad things in my life. You’ve read about some of them. I could claim my behaviour was justifiable. And I’d be fuckin right. But morally, even in the morally grey areas I routinely inhabit, these actions were akin to going to the bank and depositing dogshit, and expecting to be able to withdraw gold fuckin bars in return. I suddenly realised that our input, our every projection might have an effect on the collective consciousness and will, at some point, be reflected back at us through the refracted interpretation of others. Nietzche believed there was no such thino as knowledge, only interpretation. Which is pretty much what got me into this trouble in the first place. On the face of it, I was easily fuckin interpreted. You get what you fuckin give and I didn’t wanna be giving out any more fuckin dogshit. Or more iimportantly, I wanted to negate the fuckin possibility of receiving any. All this occurred to me in a split second. I saw my way out and blew Vincent’s head off. My last deposit of dogshit. It’s taken me about half an hour to write about my epiphany, it took me half a fuckin second to have it.

Now, we are getting to the fuckin end. And a strange fuckin end it’s been. Believe me, I know, I was fuckin there. I did get off the merry go round. And I wrote this fuckin book. And I still fuckin wonder about art imitating life imitating art. This book is what I would call a fictional biography. A lot of the characters are real, a lot of the stories are true. Some of it is fictional. But here’s the headfuck. The real characters are as much a work of fiction as the imaginary ones. But they are their own fictional creations. What the fuck am I talking about? Simple. In these days of instantly available culture, readily available films and books, the Internet for a good fuckin quote, who the fuck are we? I set out to write this book to tell a story of thuggish enlightenment, someone becoming more buhdist than baddist, and along the way, I realised I wasn’t even me anymore. I was a glorious, yes, fuckin glorious, amalgamation of personal experience mixed with what I have filtered and used from the cinema, the literary world, the world of academia, popular culture. I am a fictional character of my own making. So are you. Maybe. My fuckin problem was that people really believed I was the character I had elaborately created over the years. My biggest problem was that I was starting to believe it too. My biggest problem since giving it all up is trying to convince people I don’t exist. Well, not as they think they know me.

More so than ever, culture is viral. It is beamed into our houses on 200 channels with no quality control and very little checks on the fuckin veracity of the content. Viral is a good way to describe cultural contributions to our society today. Culture can be viewed as mass imitation. Iv done it throughout this fuckin book. Sometimes to make the point I’m fuckin making here, sometimes unwittingly. You can look at it as a form of intellectual Darwinism. Those of you who can’t be fuckin bothered to find out for yourselves simply imitate the strongest, the most charismatic, the cleverest. Or, worryingly, the most readily available. Those of us with a strong immune system filter and pick our own cultural influences from both ends of the spectrum. Those of you whose immune system is fucked, believe the X Fuckin Factor produces musicians. I was pissed off to discover that this isn’t a new or unique thought. Leo Tolstoy wrote an essay saying something fuckin similar in 1899. Imagine what he would make of today’s society. They still had pigeon fuckin post in 1899. Don’t ask. He was a famous Russian author, ok?

Now, I don’t wanna repeat myself, and I know I told you at the start, but it all worked out well. In the end. Mr Younger’s portfolio of clubs and pubs were split up by his widow. Suave Gav and Big Deano bought a couple of them cheap, cos they are a couple of clever cunts. Baz and I bought a small bar above our mates club. Remember, the one we had the minor disagreement in. It only gets open for friends and family. I might be retired, but we still don’t fuckin mix well with strangers. I don’t have to work. The money keeps coming in from our lending business and the doors. I don’t consider any of that immoral, it was just the fuckin killing cunts that I took exception too. I have a healthy bank account, it will see me and my family out, and there will be a load of property to pass onto my daughter. I reckon I’m into positive equity now on the old moral deposit scale too. But I’m like a fuckin alcoholic. It’s one day at a time. Sometimes I’m sitting trying to make sense of Sartre, or wrestling with a fuckin poem, or looking over a film script, and I get a sudden thought. In the film, Ray Winstone will take over now. Regardless of the fact I play myself, his sudden appearance as another version of me will humorously hammer home my point with a bit of cockney clout. He will appear, looking straight at the camera, turn his head towards where I was sitting at my desk, and say ‘Fuckin ponce. Morality is malleable. Truth shrouds itself in a cloak of ambiguity. But violence is consistent in its permenance. It is a one size fits all panacea for the pious mealy mouthed moral vacuum most of society has become. It has no respect for race, colour, sex or creed. It is brutally, sometimes one sidedly fair in the distribution of it’s message. The universality of morality and reason will always be superseded by the one size fits all universality of a good fuckin right hander. The great paradox is that an act of violence rescued me from the life of violence I was living. I fuckin miss it though. Sometimes. I miss being somebody. But then I remember. I’m only missing being somebody else. The person I created and imitated with great success for so many years . I fuckin remember, I am somebody. Since I gave it all up, I’m finally me. When the credits start rolling, the soundtrack will be Macy Gray singing ‘ I Try’. Cos I fuckin do. Every fuckin day. But it’s fuckin hard.’ Ray will wink at the camera, turn and walk away. You know that noise you’re television makes when you switch it off. That sudden silence and the split second disappearance of the picture. That’s what will happen in the film. Right now.