Uh, okay… Um, I’m a good…work…guy… — Lenny, “Burns’ Heir”
Gadsby’s driving gimmick, as shown northward, was to display a full 50,000-word story without a usually ubiquitous glyph making its mark. But what sort of plot might an author craft with such a limitation? Nothing grand, as shown by today’s critics.
With authority, though, Gadsby’s victory shows through not in its obligatory ladings, but in that craft of its packaging: an illustrious illustration of a masochistic task ran at by book jocks around our world.
Similar pursuits: a pilish, writing in which word-span must match pi’s unbound digitry. So…
3.14: Sit! I wait.
3.14159: Now a path I slash, strolling.
And, indubitably, anagrams:
Lisa Simpson > Miss So Plain
Disco Stu > Isco Stud
But, coming back to Gadsby’s ambitious art: its author said his folio was brought to fruition by striking that unsought symbol from his typing box and continuing onward without it, taking him all of six months to notch fifty thousand words. In comparison, today’s similarly-cast blog post, totaling hardly in surplus of two Franklins, took our mild curator a solid hour to finish.
So, to wrap up, I’m glad to find a conclusion.