“The problem, I’m sorry to say, well—”
“You hate it?”
“Well, no. Truthfully, no. I, well, if I had hated it, that would be something too. I could probably sell something I hated because I would know someone who’d want it, or I’d tell you who would sell it better, as your friend. It’s just that, I don’t know quite how to codify…listen. Art is art, life’s life, and art is the mirror to life. Well, alright, I get that. This is realism. I know realism. I get that. It is also mind bogglingly boring. Nothing, not one single thing happens throughout the whole—I can hardly call it a story, can I? What is it? A meditation, I guess. Well, alright, you sit and look at a well, and you describe the well for a thousand years or so, or for a moment. You’re wonderfully opaque on that score; for that matter, I don’t even know if there is a well really or if it’s only a metaphor for something. You’ve based it off of a real well somewhere, you put those notes in on your research, a few different ones, that is. Well and good. The problem is, I don’t care. Maybe I should. Maybe a better person than me would get it. Nothing happens; it’s a well. You’ve given me a confounded series of one in medias res piled on top of another without beginning or end. Just the ‘Echoes in the well,’ whatever you meant by that. Maybe I’m in the wrong mood, or maybe I’m too old; but maybe, just maybe, you’ve forgotten, dear boy, that life’s meant to be lived. You can’t just sit back and observe. There is a time to let the sand sift through your fingers, but there are times you must grasp something, anything, if anything is to matter in the end.”
Well, we’ll watch one well well, we will.
Tale Told 