I propose a world where novels are drastically reduced in size. Now, its not unknown to cut a book down to size for a blurb or an abstract, or even to reduce a book to one paragraph while lampooning the storyline as that section in the Guardian does. But I want to go further than that. In this world of fast food, even faster cars, rapid Internet, one-click purchase, instant coffee, instant noodles! In this world of tiny digital cameras, mobile phones the size of an ant that crawls in your ear, with video cameras on every wall and in every pocket, every hand, recording every moment of even the most banal corners of the universe! In this world of the guiltless mp3 larceny, where everything can be downloaded… from the photos of your brothers wedding in Tokyo to the sound of a South African ferret gnawing on a tree stump… surely the novel will face death or transformation – and a medium of such promise, such inexorable strength, will never chose death, no… not death, surely transformation – and transformation it shall be. Transformation at all costs.

But into what? Well let’s see now. It must be small: it will have to fit into the smallest of pockets – why not wear it as a contact lens? No, too fiddly. In the time it takes to get it in and out five hundred thousand photos will have been taken, half a million songs will have been downloaded, nine hundred burgers will have been eaten… and so on. So it needs to be small – ok – what else? Fast… its got to be over in flash, its got to smack you round the face, shock you, pluck your heart strings tenderly, frighten your wits out of you, split your sides, make you cry, enlighten you, teach you – yes! It’ll be western capitalism’s answer to Satori – over in an instant yet resounding for a lifetime. Who has time to read Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy today? They were paid by the word and wrote too many pages. We need the essence, the core, the soul, the spirit, the concentrated nucleus of a novel: one sentence – one pithy little sentence. Pith shall become the novel. We’ll print them out on little cards. I can see it now…

“Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.”-Samuel Beckett

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”-Pablo Picasso

“I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.”-Georges Bataille

“Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”-Salvador Dali

“If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.”
-Ranier Maria Rilke

“In short, I am an idle fellow who pisses his time away. I have absolutely nothing to show for my labours except my genius.”
-Henry Miller

I arrived and sat down on a large and comfy looking sofa. It was not as comfortable as it looked. Those tumescent leather looking 4-seaters they have in bars are rarely as comfortable as they look. I looked at my watch; it was only 7:30; that meant I was half an hour early. Slouching back I glanced about me warily, trying to affect a cool nonchalant mien. By backside and a large part of my back sank smoothly into the morassic swelling on which I had chosen to sit. Immediately regretting it, I sat bolt upright. Remember your posture William, I said to myself, just relax upright – yes, that’s right, its almost as comfy as anything else – just relax upright. Nodding slightly at my inner dictum ordinance I forgot myself for a few moments and gazed emptily at the glass coffee table in front of me.

A barmaid laughed loudly nearby and I was brought back to myself. Uneasy again, I checked her face to see if she had been laughing at me. Of course not, I scolded myself inside, you were hardly doing anything strange, now just get settled and relax… UPRIGHT!
Ok… ok, I replied, beginning to wish that my mind were a little more unified in its discourses.
But a discourse is an exchange, I corrected myself, not a soliloquy… and even a soliloquy is a species of exchange since it has an audience.
Yes ok, ok! I’m happy to talk to myself, I replied, but at least lets call it… lets call it… I don’t know… an introspective monologue?
Ok, lets.
So where were we?
Don’t you mean “Where am I?”
Yes I suppose I do, but you know what I mean, what was I saying?
I think I was just trying to relax and avoid attracting attention while I wait for my friends on this corpulent settee in this meretricious excuse for a drinking establishment.
I should write that down.
Yes I should.

Again, I found I was nodding to myself pensively. Another laugh from the same barmaid brought me to my senses. I surveyed my surroundings properly now, having finally achieved something resembling that calm nonchalance that has never come easily to me. The bar was sparsely populated; there were a few groups of the usual mid-twenties rich looking Dulwhich types scattered about the room, either half swallowed in puffy sofas or sitting round tables. Most of them had bottles of wine and, in between dainty sips, were smiling or giggling at each other. Most of them were female and wore polka dot dresses or small stripy sweaters and tiny slipper-shoes. They’re all very fashionable, I said to myself, deciding whether to leave it at that – an observation – or make some judgments. I can never just observe, I thought, only the completely insentient can truly escape judgement: What a load of tripe I began, these people are disgustingly vapid – horrifically vacuous…

It was a favourite diversion of mine to sit somewhere silently admonishing those around me – innocent members of public – for being pitifully and hatefully boring, for depriving themselves of personal flair, for acting in a that empty affable way that ensured not only that no one was ever offended by you but also that you repressed any nuance or interesting facet of your character. I would sit there basking in the warm agony of my own hatred, all the while confident that I was completely blameless of all the vile sins that I thrust upon those about me. This pursuit served me well, the time was passing and I was merry, until I realised the barmaid glancing at me questioningly. At first I was baffled as to why she might be throwing her eyebrows up in my direction, but I soon realised that I was violating a veritable pub commandment: thou must always buy a drink.

I checked my watch again and it was now only five to eight. My friends would be here soon enough, I might as well purchase some alcoholic poison in advance – it was inevitable that I would indulge sooner or later, why not sooner?
“I’ll have a Grolsch please” I half-shouted over to the lonely barmaid, climbing out of the cocoon that I had allowed to engulf me and walking over to the bar.
“That’s £2.80 please,” she said placing my pint on the bar in front of me.
As I handed her a fiver she leaned forward slightly and said “I hope you aren’t being stood up… you’ve been sitting there waiting for ages”.
“I hope I’m not being stood up” I laughed, “But I can’t be sure yet, I was very early you see.”
“Ah” she said “sorry, I get nosey when there’s no one to serve, I get so bored I take risks”
“That’s ok,” I said, feeling compelled and intrigued by her spiritedness, “the truth is, I am always much too early.”
“Well its much better than being late” she gave me a beautiful smile and I stared a her a little to long without saying anything. Her smile faltered and she looked away, she looked down the bar, as if hoping that there was someone else to serve. Realising my mistake, I picked up my pint and walked back to my seat, thanking her again as I left.
Wandering over to my seat I looked up to see my friend Henry walking towards me. I sat we sat down at the same time and he smiled and said “hello” with raised eyebrows. I was just about to reply with some ‘catch-up pleasantry’ or other when our nascent conversation was interrupted by… [I’m stuck, anyone any ideas?]