I must confess that I have tired of Tosca Calbirro. The content dictates the form, he says – and yet in so many cases the form alienates us from the content. We cannot get close enough to the form in order to analyse the content. So far as we know no one has even read his latest novel (which was printed onto an elegant designer dress). Or was this the point? Is the form the content in its entirety? Is there anything to read; or is the unreadability of what there is to be read a text in itself? The text is not the text, after all, but the text and everything that floats around it: it is the raft and the ocean. And all the fish in the ocean. And the land between oceans. And the people on the land between oceans. And the… well, everything. Everything is everything, or isn’t it?
The question is: where next for Calbirro? Now he has gone from the everyday space (the lavatory) to elite space (theatres and catwalks) one wonders whether subsequent stops will matter anymore. He has made himself unavailable to the common reader: one wonders whether or not he will ever return to the place from which he started. Come back, Calbirro, come back! We need you. Novels on lamp posts, bus tickets and shower curtains simply won’t write themselves. Put your words where they belong: in the home, at the source and near the centre. Where the heart is and the money ain’t.