As I was washing dishes this evening, and I did not have much to wash after my dinner, I came up with yet another argument against the novel as an art form. God would never write a novel. If he would write anything at all, it would be a biography of sorts, where he would go into the emotional side of creation, as it were. This was hard, but it had to be done. That was a joy, but it turned into a disappointment after a while. And so on. God would never write about another creation, that is. The funny thing is that I was not thinking about anything, let alone about the novel, while I was washing dishes this evening.

Addendum (July 11, 2016)

A biography of sorts? So many years later, I only wonder why was I so vague when I wrote this piece. In retrospect, what I must have had in mind was that this biography would be rather like my own magnum opus. Out of sheer modesty, I would never mention its title, of course. God worthy of that name could not write anything but residua of sorts, and buttress them with loads of addenda in the fullness of time. As well as date the whole lot, it goes without saying. Alas, my modesty stopped me short of providing all the requisite detail, but this addendum rounds off the piece handsomely. There. Against the novel with all the arrogance I can muster!