This essay is about the novel for the novel by a novelist. It has been written out of the silence of all those for whom it might speak and against the noise of all those who might oppose it.
The novel only exists because of the stories elaborated upon inside its pages. It would otherwise be an empty object of bookended blank paper or a black screen. So when we talk about the novel, we need to talk about the stories it contains; we also need to talk about the context of the novel, because only then can we discover what it really means in our society.
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