I always thought you were like Anthony Burgess, or Ray Bradbury, of that sort of philosophically-orientated storytelling like Sartre’s The Age of Reason or Burrough’s Naked Lunch where you’re more concerned with the message and the meaning rather than the portrayal of humans being human and doing human things, but you’re not. You’re not, because you write beautiful things like, “We […] saw what the past had been like, according to the Ford Motor Car Company and Walt Disney, saw what the future would be like, according to General Motors.
And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, and how much was mine to keep.”
(Yes, I just finished reading Slaughterhouse-Five. It’s so good. It’s like Zusak’s The Book Thief, written in the 60s.)