Crime writers are virtual criminals, the lowest species of fiction writer whose literary criminality is only surpassed by the purveyors of crime drama, whether on the stage or in the cinema, that is to say, whether theatrically or cinematically – the difference, I suspect, between bourgeois (Western) decadence and proletarian (global) barbarism, which also includes television and the ever-popular serialization of crime drama. Ugh! A world in which the beauty of evil and the ugliness of crime, the love of the one and the hatred of the other, are literally as well as virtually sovereign.
Unlike vanity, justice is not an ideal, the ideal, so to speak, of females, but a mere concomitant of male hegemonic pressure in pseudo-righteousness, and therefore merely polar, on a low state-hegemonic axial basis, to the highness of vanity, which likes to parade its evil/crime all over the place, ever clear that it – and not the goodness/punishment of justice – ‘calls the shots’, not least in relation to crime drama and, to a lesser extent, crime fiction. Though, in fairness to the latter, the crime novelist, a pseudo-chemical pseudo-female (whether literally or effectively through male quasi-pseudo-female gender perversion), should be more interested in solving crime than in simply perpetuating it like, I have to say, so many crime dramatists.