i'm back to reading the luminous novel thinking i'll finish it though it's long and full of digressions, though the digressions are the book. it's all digressions and all to the point. it's a diary about writing a novel that the writer is unable to write and is writing knowing it is the novel he's unable to write so it's a diary he calls the luminous novel. he's not just trying to be modern or self-referential. the point is just living, though that's a gross simplification of a vast neuronal network of questions and imaginings. if he were trying to be cute it wouldn't work, and somehow it works, i think. it reminds me of the way i dream sometimes that i'm awake, or i dream that i'm dreaming and in the dreaming it's pretty ordinary even if inexplicable things occur or i do inexplicable things. it's the same as being awake. except awake i can write things down though i mostly don't. it gets closer to writing as breathing and living though so that (so far) is what seems the value and the integrity of the book, it's not trying to be something it's not, it's attempting to stay tuned in, to being what it is.