"War and Peace, how recherche ... The Divine Commedy ... not too overdone."
Celeste approached.
"I see you like books."
He gave her a disdainful look.
"Like books? One doesn't like books anymore. How outre."
"Well, you read books then?"
"No I write them."
"You don't read, but you write?"
"If I read," he responded slowly, as if to a child, "I would only write what had been written before."
"So you'd plagiarize."
Bart composed a pained expression.
"Everything written has already been written. All the words have already been used. Originality is a false concept."
"So, what do you write?"
"I have just completed a book of 976,807,148 words, all of which are unique, and all of which I created myself.
The book said nothing.
