[racehorse]

Christian Bök's book has only 5 chapters, and has each chapter dedicated to one vowel, and so is composed only of words using that vowel. The text and also the recordings of Bok reading the work is now online.

Complete text of the work

MP3 of Chapter A
MP3 of Chapter E
MP3 of Chapter I
MP3 of Chapter O
MP3 of Chapter U


From Chapter I

Writing is inhibiting. Sighing, I sit, scribbling in ink
this pidgin script. I sing with nihilistic witticism,
disciplining signs with trifling gimmicks – impish
hijinks which highlight stick sigils. Isn’t it glib?
Isn’t it chic? I fit childish insights within rigid limits,
writing shtick which might instill priggish misgiv-
ings in critics blind with hindsight. I dismiss nit-
picking criticism which flirts with philistinism. I
bitch; I kibitz – griping whilst criticizing dimwits,
sniping whilst indicting nitwits, dismissing simplis-
tic thinking, in which philippic wit is still illicit.

Pilgrims, digging in shifts, dig till midnight in mining
pits, chipping flint with picks, drilling schist with drills,
striking it rich mining zinc. Irish firms, hiring micks
whilst firing Brits, bring in smiths with mining skills:
kilnwrights grilling brick in brickkilns, millwrights
grinding grist in gristmills. Irish tinsmiths, fiddling
with widgits, fix this rig, driving its drills which spin
whirring drillbits. I pitch in, fixing things. I rig this
winch with its wiring; I fit this drill with its piping. I
dig this ditch, filling bins with dirt, piling it high, sift-
ing it, till I find bright prisms twinkling with glitz.

Hiking in British districts, I picnic in virgin firths,
grinning in mirth with misfit whims, smiling if I find
birch twigs, smirking if I find mint sprigs. Midspring
brings with it singing birds, six kinds (finch, siskin, ibis,
tit, pipit, swift), whistling shrill chirps, trilling chirr
chirr in high pitch. Kingbirds flit in gliding flight,
skimming limpid springs, dipping wingtips in rills
which brim with living things: krill, shrimp, brill –
fish with gilt fins, which swim in flitting zigs. Might
Virgil find bliss implicit in this primitivism? Might
I mimic him in print if I find his writings inspiring?

Fishing till twilight, I sit, drifting in this birch skiff,
jigging kingfish with jigs, bringing in fish which nip
this bright string (its vivid glint bristling with stick
pins). Whilst I slit this fish in its gills, knifing it, slicing
it, killing it with skill, shipwrights might trim this jib,
swinging it right, hitching it tight, riding brisk winds
which pitch this skiff, tipping it, tilting it, till this ship
in crisis flips. Rigging rips. Christ, this ship is sink-
ing. Diving in, I swim, fighting this frigid swirl, kick-
ing, kicking, swimming in it till I sight high cliffs,
rising, indistinct in thick mists, lit with lightning.

Lightning blinks, striking things in its midst with
blinding light. Whirlwinds whirl; driftwinds drift.
Spindrift is spinning in thrilling whirligigs. Which
blind spirit is whining in this whistling din? Is it
this grim lich, which is writhing in its pit, lifting its
lid with whitish limbs, rising, vivific, with ill will in
its mind, victimizing kids timid with fright? If it is –
which blind witch is midwifing its misbirth, binding
this hissing djinni with witching spiritism? Is it this
thin, sickish girl, twitching in fits, whilst writing
things in spirit-writing? If it isn’t – it is I; it is I …

Lightning flicks its riding whip, blitzing this night
with bright schisms. Sick with phthisis in this driz-
zling mist, I limp, sniffling, spitting bilic spit, itching
livid skin (skin which is tingling with stinging pin-
pricks). I find this frigid drisk dispiriting; still, I fight
its chilling windchill. I climb cliffs, flinching with
skittish instincts. I might slip. I might twist this in-
firm wrist, crippling it, wincing whilst I bind it in its
splint, cringing whilst I gird it in its sling; still, I risk
climbing, sticking with it, striving till I find this rift,
in which I might fit, hiding in it till winds diminish.