Bart examined one of the many bookcases of the Castle Greenwood with distaste.
"War and Peace, how recherche ... The Divine Commedy ... not too overdone."
"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.