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Used to write novels or, rather, antinovels at one time, slightly influenced by James Joyce and Henry Miller; left-wing kind of novels, I suppose you could call them. No fictions, all characters either based on myself or on people I had once known, maybe still knew to some extent. No plot or story-line, more American than British, Britain still producing conventional novels by the cartload, ever bourgeois and traditional. Can't read any of them! Only a little Lawrence Durrell and Anthony Burgess from time to time, 'best of a bad job', so to speak. Still novelists, but capable of anti-novelistic tendencies, more intelligent than most of their contemporaries. Still bourgeois of course, no real possibility of truly revolutionary chaps coming through in England, where the rule of slavery is the norm, slavery, above all, to the state-hegemonic class-bound status quo. Did like snatches of Beard's Roman Women though, much healthier than Earthly Powers, what with all that Catholic priestly talk, making a leading character out of a priest, a kind of bourgeois revolutionary, desirous to reform Christianity on the basis of a unification of the denominations rather than to abolish it altogether, as I would, given half the chance! I wonder how Burgess managed to persevere with that character over so many hundreds of pages, not the only trying one by any means (the homosexual protagonist I found even more so at times), but certainly one of the most obnoxious with whom I, even if only as a reader, have ever persevered!

No, my characters were more usually extensions of myself, variations on an autobiographical theme, you could say. I have never been enough of a novelist, thank goodness, to create pure fictions, like a bourgeois would do in his relatively objective stance before the world. Indeed, I would even go so far as to say that the better and more evolved the artist, the more he'll identify with his work, finding in it but a reflection of himself. It is only in bourgeois literature that there exists a lacuna between creator and creations, author and fictions, as between the private and public selves - the former true, the latter false. Even the petty-bourgeois antinovelist disdains such a lacuna, preferring, if anything like Henry Miller, to write about himself and/or his thoughts. How much more so must that apply to a writer like myself, intent on producing a radically theocratic mode of writing in the formal framework of philosophical literature, something a bourgeois novelist would never do, given his atomic materialism. I reject relativity, the lacuna between fact and fiction. I promote a truthful absolutism, suitable to this level of writing, the writer at one with his creations, the private made public and therefore negated. I have nothing to hide from anyone, everything to reveal. Truth transcends the individual. I have no need of relativities, different characters, and frictions. Radical theocratic writing focuses on the absolute, if not on the Ultimate Absolute then, at any rate, on the absolutism of the individual writer, who can invent a world of his own peopled by his own selves, former or current, as well as by the selves he can anticipate (future projections) through a process of illusional abstraction from the truth that guides him and is his creative essence. He can also concentrate on other selves, as I have just done with regard to Anthony Burgess. Selves are everywhere and many, but he can absorb them into his oneness as an absolute writer. He doesn't even have to get out of bed to do this. Selves come to him in his sleep, abstractions of real persons or imaginings of the mind. Sometimes, when awake, he fantasizes with these abstractions, creates scenes or romances, becomes their voyeur or participates in their diverse proceedings. Was he the gynaecologist who had a young woman lying naked on a high couch with her legs unconventionally forced apart and back by a clamped horizontal bar while he probed her sexual crevice with long, shiny instruments? Or was he the young mother's infant son looking on, while the doctor forced gynaecological sex upon her as he slid a sopping wet gloved hand backwards and forwards inside her dripping trench? He was everything and anything - father, mother, and son by turns or simultaneously. He had projected a younger father onto a younger mother, a pre-marital coupling, and had himself slept with his mother in the father's role. There was no incestuous barrier in the mind, no barrier on anything imaginative. He was totally free, within the biological limits of his brain, to do what he pleased, whether as actor or spectator. Free, too, to admit the moral validity of pornography in the supersession of fantasy - that old-brain/subconscious-mind indulgence. After all, I'm no fool; I can see perfectly well the moral superiority of the contemplation of, say, a model in a men's magazine to the actual indulgence of sexual fantasy. I spend more time contemplating such models than fantasizing about either them or anyone else.

Indeed, outside of soft-core pornography, I don't really have a sex-life at all. As I said at the beginning, I haven't kissed a girl in over thirteen years, not having access to anyone in particular, the move to north London kind of further isolating me from congenial company, making me more self-reliant, sharpening my taste for men's magazines, upgrading my sublimations. Living where I do, a kind of intellectual outsider blown in from the provinces, I was obliged, at an early date, to regard soft-core pornography not merely as a substitute for sex, but as an alternative to it, my aversion to working-class girls partly conditioned by a suburban background, partly by my sophisticated culture, partly even by knowledge of my father's experience in marrying a woman - my mother - who turned out to be anything but his idea of compatible and whom he quickly left, ultimately obliging her to drag a tiny me away with her from Galway, Ireland, into problematic exile in Aldershot, England. I didn't want to make a similar mistake, so preferred to keep away from women whom my instinct and culture told me were essentially frivolous or likely to be ethnically incompatible. Besides, there were also financial constraints to bear in mind, a consequence of officially being unemployed. In all honesty, I couldn't have afforded to date a woman on a regular basis, scarcely even on an irregular one. Neither did I want to reveal my actual position to anyone, more humiliating, I dare say, than would otherwise have been the case, given my literary pretensions. My secret was my own affair and I intended to keep it so. If I had resigned myself to voyeuristic admiration of women in the flesh, the actual flesh itself was taboo. A few years ago I would have said beyond my grasp. Now I will say beneath it. Yes, for I have come, as I intimated earlier, to regard my soft-core pornographic indulgences of certain men's magazines as my sexuality, as complete and logical a sexuality as any straight heterosexual behaviour. I will call it a theocratic as opposed to a democratic sexuality, supernatural rather than natural.

Supernatural? Yes, a relativity, as in heterosexual naturalism, between model and admirer. In natural sex a man inserts his penis into his partner's vagina and makes love to her. In supernatural sex, however, a man concentrates his attention on the vagina of his selected female model and masturbates himself to a climax in voyeuristic partnership. He indulges a sublimated heterosexuality, his eyes focusing on his 'partner's' sexual orifice while his penis responds both to it, through his mind, and to his own masturbation. This is why I prefer soft-core pornography to hard-core pornography, where, by contrast, there is invariably a sexual relationship between models (participants), and one is forced into the necessarily passive role of voyeur or, more usually, perverse onanist, one's masturbation accessory to the actual coupling.

For me, a one-to-one relationship is essential between myself and the female model, to which I make love on a sublimated and inevitably one-sided basis. A supernatural sex then, as much a norm for certain people on a given evolutionary psychic level as natural sex is for those who live on a lower, more bourgeois psychic level. In fact, I have developed a scale of equivalents between sex and politics, and I firmly believe that one's sexuality and one's politics should be on approximately the same level, that the former will to some extent condition the latter. My own sexuality I would describe as fascistic, which accords with my Social Transcendentalist ('Social Transcendental' would be too adjectivally parallel and therefore loose) ideological bent, though, in point of fact, I visualize Social Transcendentalism as post-fascist and more a religion than a mode of politics in reaction to Communism, the strict sexual equivalent to which would be late-teenage juvenile pornography, an equivalent more suited, I would think, to the masses than to their leaders!

Be that as it may, the theocratic, supernatural essence of my sexuality cannot be denied. Sex is not simply a thing of the body; it's conditioned by the evolutionary status of one's psyche, which in turn conditions one's level of politics or, at any rate, ought to do. That the psyche is partly conditioned by the nature of one's environment, I will not deny. But other factors - temperamental, hereditary, educational, cultural, social, ethnic - are also responsible, in varying degrees, for the psyche's current status, a status which is continuously changing.