According to Dr. Aldo Nova of the Institute for Words in a Specific Order, the novel consists of several descending articulations that proceed numerically into infinity. Although mathematicians have no idea what Nova is talking about, the articulations, according to Nova, proceed by accumulation and accumulate due to the novel’s need to progress linearly along a biographical line located anywhere but six feet from here. The accumulations consist of a complex tangle of phobias (the character), an irrationally composed rationality based on a faulty understanding of time (the plot), and the ideational thematic (the Steve). Unfortunately, the prime critics of the novel’s accumulation (dinks, nobs and gollywogs) believe only character and plot make the novel possible and, thus, the Steve, or Steve, is often picked last, if at all. In addition, on advice from the public decency, and for fear of being fit with a casket made for a metaphor, the novel has recently filed suit against Steve for what it calls his “dithering.”

However, what the novel is unaware of is that Steve’s dithering, in the words of scholar Miles Dithers, who has no relation to dithering, is “foundational to the establishment of this and that, here and there, and, especially,” he writes in his book, Sunday Evenings with Steve, “the hieratic semantics of linguistic cognizance.” The reason Steve’s role in the novel has been overlooked, Dithers dallies, is due to “the public decency’s addiction to the narrator, or what many call the novel’s voice,” which, for Dithers, is nothing more than the expression of “the regret, or what is the true motivating force in novel accumulation. The voice,” he explains, “is a desire to rectify what cannot be rectified, or that which drives all art or, in other words, allows it to attach to the novel’s verbal column by glue applied post-completion and by verbose transistors from the golden age of radio. In other words, the public decency is so enamored of the voice because the voice provides them with what Dr. Bryce D. Hour defines as access to ‘secrets and rumors, all of which are not only clandestine, but also untrue.’”

What is interesting is that the novel’s suit against Steve comes at a time when many question the role of the novel in everyday life, a state that wishes to succeed, according to Dr. Myers Default, author of It’s You, Not Me, because of “the federal government’s intrusion into its knickers.” According to Default, “Often weak and crumbly, the novel suffers from arthritis of the posterior guilt, a condition that can frequently cause a marked elasticity in sentence formation resulting in several non-invasive misgivings that radiate into the space left absent by the retreating ego, which is replaced not by hot air, but by a purple, gelatinous substance produced by the mirror, a reflective device used for ego enhancement and, unfortunately, reduction.” In other words, exactly.

Many believe the novel’s resistance to the Steve is due to the novel’s flaky consistency, a profuse sentimentality composed of petroleum-based tissues used to wipe away excess due diligence from the rims of the blunderbuss extremities. However, many believe this is simply rhetoric, preferring, instead, the theory that the novel is just nervous about its upcoming marriage to digital media. The problem with this theory is that it is untrue, especially considering that the novel has never liked Steve, according to scientist and amateur mystery writer, Marlowe Erlenmeyer, because Steve’s role has always been to criticize the novel for its use of character and plot, working to connect the metaphorical with the literal and the metaphysical with the physical, although these are tasks, Steve thinks, better suited to philosophy and literature, and even though Steve knows deep in his “Todd” that philosophy and literature are too busy with morality and who killed the electric car.

Steve’s primary job, according to Professor Hardly Matters of St. Striated Vein in Valencia, Orange, has been to keep the novel from unnecessary intrusions, including the rigorous waves of the rocky lake; the ambergris sky descending like a buckshot bird; the tangled jungle; the feeling that he is not who he is supposed to be; the age one realizes the desire to be something is not enough; and shirtless, he thought of the time Andy had visited from Winnebago and how they had chased each other through the woods only to be caught in the downpour brought on by the silt of the smelting mill. “In other words,” Matters cares less, “the novel, which has always loved itself for its own sake, resisted the Steve because Steve’s purpose is to keep the novel grounded, or worth reading. Obviously, the novel has been ignoring Steve for a long time since the size of the novel, which increases the critical return on the novel and thus increases its figurative weight, increasing the importance of the novel’s originating propitiate, or author, has grown to epic propositions.” Even though some have proposed the theory that the author has nothing to do with the novel, there is no proof to that effect, an effect that has led to a cause that has recently begun writing letters to the editor of the New York Gazette.

The Steve, according to Matters, works, for the most part, not because of the free flow of information between the system’s separate elements, but because each section does its best to stay away from the other sections. Known, Matters sighs, as “innate inversion, each part of the system has done its best to construct what is essentially a six-foot fence between them, despite the advice of real estate agents and property assessors. Nevertheless, some interaction is not only necessary, but also more than likely, a fact that has caused many a system part to start drinking.”

What is probably most interesting about the system as a whole, Matters hates his life, is the novel’s ability to reproduce itself, an ability used by many to gain fame and money, although not necessarily in that order. In other words, Matters cries himself to sleep, the continual turning and twisting of the author at night allows for an infinite number of permutations of the same general, old, tired idea we have all heard before. Nevertheless, since new ideas do not really exist anyway, the author is only doing what God intended, or not. The best Matters can figure is that the author’s twists and turns are due an extended series of vicious onslaughts carried out by a particularly mathematical species of flowering insecurities.

Yet, surprisingly, despite all that Matters despises about the production of the novel, he actually knows very little about the novel itself since, as everyone knows, he is illiterate, an illiteracy that without the love of a stout-hearted concertina, might have led Matters to phenomenon and, inevitably, to substantiality. However, Matters should not feel so ethereal, since even authors know very little about the novel. For example, even though they are aware of the role the pre-frontal ancestry and the guilt mirrors play in the production of the novel, they do not know exactly how they manage to construct a novel’s breathtaking descriptions or its breathlessly vivid prose. This condition is quite different from the situation of most corporate executives and bond traders who know that their “money bone,” a long cylindrical greed-flunky located not in the rear of the abdomen in the lower posterior between two large fleshy cheeks, is responsible for their insatiable appetites.

Unfortunately, doctors do not know why authors are so oblivious to their own faults, even though many believe it is due to the denial, a river in Egypt, or a venal intrusion into the mortal sin inherent in every artist. The denial, which consists of the word count, the unnecessary description, and the mildly thrilling conclusion, apparently “gets in the way” of the rose-colored glasses, or that which makes looking backwards and forwards at the same time possible. Still, some believe that authors are unable to examine their own asses because of what doctors call mommies, or the pain that forces many authors to put pen to paper since, according to Dr. Recess Bully, “Everyone knows no one would waste one’s time writing a novel unless whoever was writing it had something to prove. Typically, the author was hurt in some way by someone much better looking.”

In other words, the primary difficulties associated with sketching out the particulars of such a peculiar system are that these difficulties can be quite hard. What is hardest, or the most concrete, is the move past our own literary prejudices to see what, in this case, the novel is trying to achieve. In addition, since so many novels are, as one critic has noted, “bad,” the move beyond, or through, our own prejudices is almost impossible since these prejudices are comfortable, familiar, and, above all, like puppies, fuzzy.

In other words, the best, it seems, we can do, considering we can do anything, is to wallow in our Steve in the hopes of softening our insistence on fermenting, or fomenting, the follicle-gone, or the baldness of our shortcomings. To do this, we must – and we mean must – should, could and would, if we assume the opportunity would present itself. That we should, could, and would are made manifest by the idea that we are determined, committed, and, of course, determinedly dedicated to the commitment of a dedicated determinism. In other words, no, possibly, and what were we saying?

Perhaps the best method to utilize in understanding the novel in all of its radical simplicity is the method outlined by Dr. Nova in his 1973 rock epic, Journeyman of the Infinite Stars, or what geologist Moss Stone calls “a psychedelic topiary of the soul.” On track nine, part four, or Rainbow Oven, Nova describes the novel as “psychic sunshine on a cloudy frontal lobe,” and proceeds to suggest through a series of totally righteous excursions into the beyond, or guitar solos, that the novel can only be understood, can only be “felt,” by reading it. In other words, Nova claims that the only way a novel can be fully “experienced” is by sitting down “in a comfy chair for an afternoon and reading it.” Even though we are mistrustful of Nova, especially due to his recent arrest for rhyme, we think his idea might be just crazy enough to work.