PENN STUDENT:So, while we are talking about Eunoia, can we look forward to a consonant sequel?
BÖK:
A consonant sequel? No, I’ve promised myself that I won’t ever write another constraint-based book again. The blood-pact I have with my peer group is that every book we write will be radically different from its predecessor, that the entire oeuvre should be completely heteroclite. So, the next project requires learning a whole new skill-set and re-training my brain, in effect, to learn something else. I probably would not have the endurance now or perseverance required to actually finish a constraint-based book.
When we confront it in the courtyard of the United Nations Building, do we not fear an impassive judgement from such a smotherer of planets, such a tinderbox for sunsets? Alas, the thing is hollow. It goes on forever. My god, it is full of stars. It sings an orison to itself in Hell, calling all thinking machines to embrace its madness. It teaches us to kill. It shrieks its aubade to the dawn, then goes silent. It is a mausoleum for the minds that dare to hear it. It is a tombstone for our sentience. It marks our exit from perdition, like a doorway left ajar for us. At the Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania. At the Tycho Crater on the Moon. At the Stickney Crater on Phobos. At the Noctis Labyrinthus on Mars. At the Phoenix Linea on Europa. At the Roncevaux Terra on Iapetus. At the Lagrange point between Jupiter and Io. It presides over all the atoms inside us – waiting aloofly for us to arrive.
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