How do you know that this is a narrative? Is it not, for instance, a sequence of images, an interaction within a measure of time, measure of space, an association upright for juxtaposition, intense pain, cunning solitude, a bland memory, a contrived denouement, the expression of disaster, dismissal? And so, architecture, movement, feeling? In Dear Cyborgs, Eugene Lim’s third novel, a character says: “It’s actually impossible—did you know? I Wikipedia’d it—for an algorithm, for a machine like our computers to, by themselves, generate a truly random order… The machines have pseudorandomness; the world has actual randomness.”
Soon, another character responds. “Well, what I want to know… is whether an internet search has a plot.”
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