White Rabbit Forward

Before you go forward, you must throw out all reason and logic and chose instead to believe in something more. Or else, you will be lost. You must believe in the beautiful possibility of finding and having everything you ever wanted if only for a little while. And you cannot pretend. You must believe in love, as I believe in love. You must hold on to that belief until you have finished reading this novel and then you can let go if you like, bury it in a hole still breathing even, and go back to being as you were before reading. Lock it up like a baby in a hot car, if you wish. It is yours. But do your best to forget you were here as though this was a gay bar and you are a flaming heterosexual.

Delores Marlowe is 16 years-old and straightaway you may belittle her for her age, dismiss her feelings and thoughts as being teenage melodramatics bore of the naivety and jollity of youth. But Delores isn’t like other teenagers and love is purest when it is without the bitter logic and scrutiny of adulthood. It is purest before it gets used by the unscrupulous like a rental car en route to someplace called settling down, then recycled like a second-hand washing machine and overloaded and abused in a dank dim basement. There is no logic in love and there is only the reality that it creates for itself which becomes its atmosphere. It isn’t phonier than a paper moon, as a ceramic Dickens’ village on pillow stuffing and confetti snow, lest that it may be taken away, or lost through the course of life. Though, it sometimes gives itself up not for lack of being but for a lack of being returned, or out of sacrifice. If you want logic and reason, read Tom Clancy. It probably isn’t too late to get your money back. Tell the pretty girl at the register that we weren’t meant to be together and she will understand. Ride your logical horse until you are content, shriveled and old with a great big belly of reason and have logic growing out your nose and ears. To the rest of you, welcome...