t was the
end of the Unknown. Or so the critics hoped. The Unknown had succesfully
pissed off the critics by remaining a jump ahead of their own criticism.
By not finishing their work. Using Web technology and print-on-demand,
revising constantly, always incorporating into their work the criticism
of it, as well as their rejoinders to aforementioned criticism. In essence
making fools of anyone who tried to criticize. Whatever didnt diminish
them made them bigger. For those critics would churn out a paragraph and
publish it, as if scrawling their words in wet concrete which would harden
into the permanence of a line etched into a CV. But the hypertext of the
Unknown was perpetually wet clay, and, in spasms and fits and jerks, its
sculptors would continually revise. What one critic claimed was a cheap
rip-off of Michaelangelos David would inexplicably become overnight a
cheap ripoff of the Sistine Chapel, rendering the criticism in retrospect
somewhat misguided and silly.
Someday, the critics hoped, they would all die together. Those Unknown, whoever the hell it or they were. Ideally in a plane crash, like Buddy Holly. And then, finally, like desperate vultures, the critics would close in around the corpse of the beast. And begin to label its flaws.