It was uncomputable, it was the province of the novel, that hopeless apparatus of guesswork and supposition, with which Kathy liked to have as little traffic as possible.
She wrote fiction, sure, but she populated it with the already extant, the pre-packaged and readymade. She was in many ways Warhol's daughter, niece at least, a grave-robber, a bandit, happy to snatch what she needed but also morally invested in the cause: that there was no need to invent, you could make anything from out of the overflowing midden of the already-done, the as Becket put it nothing new, it was economic also stylish to help yourself to the grab bag of the actual.