would have believed that, in the closing days of the twentieth century,
humankinds literature was being criticized by an intelligence far greater
than its own? While writers scurried to and fro between their readings
at universities and visiting professorships and residencies at writersworkshops, their words were being studied as
carefully as DNA might be decoded by a geneticist
beneath a powerful microscope. Trapped in their earthy plane, and their
linear thought, these poets and novelists lines were as predictable as
the behavior of ants. But for a few exceptions.
Because a few writers had become freed from that plodding page-turning that
begins at i and continues through 1079 that had imprisoned human thought
for two millenia, and were producing a text the sheer complexity of which
was enough to intrigue the observers, and give them cause to write criticism.
But their efforts to radio this useful feedback to the creatures of earth
failed, because the four hypertext novelists
could barely afford shoes, much less the sophisticated
directional electro-magnetic instruments necessary to understand and receive
guidance from the criticism. And so this intelligence
realized it was necessary to make a trip across the ocean of space that
separated it from earth, in order to help the
human race evolve into a form of intelligence capable of writing the sort
of hypertext novels that this intelligence required to make it laugh.