No, Dirk, I think that we do. You created something that, in your mind, is in some way alive. In some way self-conscious. And you’re human enough to realize that you can’t just kill it. [I never said that.] But if you don’t destroy it, you need to take responsibility at some point. I’m not saying you are or should be responsible for it now. But take responsibility for creating it. Take responsibility for disassembling something else in order to create it. If you destroy it, you’ll need to take responsibility for that; if you keep it alive, same deal. You need to think it over and decide for yourself to what degree you’re responsible for each of those acts. [Why can’t it be responsible for itself?] Can it be? That’s something else you need to decide. [Are you still talking about the book?] Yes; if you’re talking about something else, that’s coming from your end, not mine. [If you say so.] Here’s another angle from which to consider responsibility in this book. Think about all the other texts that you’ve quoted or paraphrased or alluded to. [What about them?] You love to pull them in, but you very rarely identified or attributed them. [Well, it’s hardly an allusion if you pinpoint the source in MLA format, is it?] But it’s not how you used them, it’s how you eventually punished yourself for them. When Anna started channeling characters from the works to which you alluded— that was the one thing more than any other that led to your “downfall,” your self-inflicted loss/gain of narrative control. [So I was shirking the responsibility of… of history? literature? trace? by being willfully obstinate and obtuse re. citation. And then I forced myself to take responsibility, which made me lose control.] Either that, or you were taking on unnecessary responsibility with your allusions, and it was only when you relinquished that responsibility that you were able to regain control. [I imagine that if I ask you which one it is, you’ll say “both.”] Good imagination. [Okay, so we’ve established that I feel some responsibility (deserved or not) for preserving this text, for letting it “live”; that there’s a part of me, at least, that can’t stop writing it for reasons that go beyond obsession. But here’s the problem: I’ve painted myself into a corner where preserving this book means facilitating a plan to destroy it.] You mean Anna’s plan? [Yeah. The narrative is hurtling towards the moment of her plot’s realization; its manifestation as plot as such. It has so much momentum at this point. And I don’t think that I can change its course now with anything short of a “The End.” If I keep writing, it’ll inevitably result in Anna wiping the slate clean. So wouldn’t it be better that I do the wiping myself, on my own terms?] But that’s not what Anna’s plan is about. It was never about “wiping the slate clean.” Weren’t you paying attention? The terminology is important. It’s not “Operation Tabula Rasa,” it’s “Operation Palimpsest.” [What’s the difference?] Tell me, what does tabula rasa mean? [“Blank slate” idiomatically, “scraped tablet” literally. Just like a palimpsest.] Not quite. The Romans would write on wax tablets, then melt the wax before scraping it so the tablets could be reused. Leaving no trace of the original text. [Heh.] A palimpsest is just the opposite, though. No melting. Even on the most thoroughly scraped palimpsest, both texts are readable. The erased one might be incredibly faint, sure, but it’s still there. A palimpsest is nothing but trace. [So it’s either my best or worst case scenario, depending on which part of me you ask. Does Anna know about this aspect of her own plan?] If you don’t know whether she does, I don’t know either. [Hmm.] And this is where the third big concept comes into play. [Can’t wait to hear what it is.] Before I tell you, will you leave these insert pages and go back into the book? Are you ready to do that, Dirk? […I guess so. I need to face the end eventually.] Good. Let’s go. #DetectivePony #KissMarryKill #ThePonyPals #Pawnee #Pam #Anna