I might be a failure as a prolific internet essayist, but don’t make the mistake of overestimating the value of the essayist to the wars we wage. Audiences I can live without, even if the small one that I’ve enjoyed has given me the thrill of a life lived without shelter. It was war I wanted, waged at this moment against every thought and action either produced by, or enacted upon, my body. It was war I wanted, not a Party or a President. It was war I wanted, not a new T-shirt that proclaims my slavish will to belong. It was war I wanted, not to market for profit. It was war I wanted, not to be a writer.
In other words, I wanted to be an operator, not a benefactor. I wanted to fight, not to talk about the fight.
And so … my ears appear unused, my hands appear idle: a good thing; for in a war without a frontline there’s no moment taken, given, or created that is free from the ravages of the fight.