Biro (November)

The novel that tells of the refrigerator without naming the refrigerator, as without the refrigerator the modern novel would not exist; that tells of a television, not just any television but ‘his television’, the box in the blue corner which introduced and contested his hundred illusions; that tells of his gadgets, their immobile personalities he switched off in November, or on in November; that tells of the washing-machine of survival; that tells of the typewriter he sometimes played like a piano, sometimes like a hammer, copying manically all the words that, blue miles, came out of a chewed nondescript biro.