C’est Moi, The Review; or, A Blogger Blogs about His Literary Blog [Flash Fiction]

This critical journal, this literary review, with its pages of Essays and its blog, where some of the essays are initially worked out, expresses the views of its author, Thomas Sarebbononnato, who is also the Publishing Editor, sometimes referred to as the Editor-in-Chief. The essays are all of them literary in form, and many are social and political in commentary, although not primarily or ultimately. There are also critiques of culture, of language, of art, of music, of history, of historiography, of philosophy, of religion, of media, of film, of people, of behavior, of psychology, of pedagogy, of bureaucracy, of ethnicity, of love, desire, reason, knowledge, literacy . . . what else should I include? Maybe I should include everything–everything? Everything is always troublesome; there is no thing closer to nothing than everything. Whenever government administrators say they are going to do something for everyone, they have no one in mind, no one in their sights, no one in their rhetoric, no one is no one is no one. I will not include everything. One could not include everything herein, but in attempting toward everything–and the toward here is important to note–the journal achieves its perpetuation, realizes its purpose. In perpetuity is the desire of its editorial staff, whether that be many or one. All criticism levied against this review must of course fall in my lap–on me–and so, here at present, this review is one, myself. Yes, The Review, c’est moi, I could say, do say so here, what means what anyone says in whatever voice he uses in his blog; there would have be many inflections in voice, many ways to express what gets said in exposition herein, the many voiced voice, the many authored author . . . theme in variation throughout my writing,my works, what makes them mine, what makes me the authority . . . onions have layers Shrek says to Donkey. It’s true; the writer, the author, the narrator, the expositor, who am I who are they; I am we inside me; what am I in the text, where am I in the text? Does it matter now to you the reader when you read what you are reading now about what I write how I write, at least some of it, what then must you do when I do what I must with and for the text . . . three hundred and some odd words, nearly four hundred?

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