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By the time you read this, if there is anyone out there reading this, Philip Roth will probably have written twenty more novels, while I no doubt will be searching for answers to the same old questions without recognition or reward. My main purpose in putting the following down on papermore selfish than not, I must admitis to relieve myself of this Sisyphus-like burden I have thus far endured in Promethean silence by sharing it with you.
"What's driven me to the brink of madness is this strange power Roth has had over me the past few years, although we've never really met. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not accusing him of plagiarism or any other literary blasphemy; nor am I saying that he has stuck poisoned needles into a stuffed doll of my image, or conjured up the symptoms of writer's block for me in a bubbling witch's cauldron of his own design. Nothing that obvious. But like a disease that's infested the spirit and reduced it to despair, he's either taken up residence in my brain or parked alongside the curb of my eyebrow so he can eavesdrop on my every thought. I wouldn't call it mind control yet, although it's definitely heading in that direction.