Fried Egg Sandwich [Flash Fiction]

I owe more to Francis Bacon than I admit. I owe a lot to Orwell and Camus, I know, I have said as much as many times asI have mentioned influences on writing, saying something about how I used to write a lot of essays when I was in university–at university–essays personal, essays literary, essays philosophical, essays political, essays academically critical or is it critically academic. I also owe more to Duras in my essays than I  am sometimes able to recognize, having reread her essays as of late . . . what does it mean when anything is as of late? What does it mean to say as I have herein attempted to say, saying something about writing, without saying anything except in allusion, mentioning one or another writer is supposed to conjure images or connections or memories of the writer’s style and thus say something about me about mine what then do I say about my writing–I used to hesitate to say anything about my writing, leaving what I had written to stand for any explication of my own–how is it that a writer sets out to explicate his writing. I am the chicken who should know the egg? You do not have to be a chicken to know an egg, I used to say, thought I was saying something incisive by doing so. I haven’t had a fried egg sandwich in a long time. I always used to have my fried egg sandwiches with ketchup.


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