Mr. White
After a horribly precocious and traumatically privileged childhood, Mr. White, informed only by a general bankruptcy inherent in his home burg of Lake Wylie and constrained by its paltry provincialism, expatriated to the West Bank of the Cooper River in 1995. It was there, only after turning his back on his family and faith, that his literary legacy would flourish. With every class, the acolyte's famous paradoxes and linguistic acrobatics inevitably catapulted his peers and professors into a mis-en-dayme of wonderment. He was honored by a local Indian sect for his apt condemnations on the white race in his widely revered tome "The Real Martian Invaders" and given the a tribal name locked into generations of Indians and there by transcending his own heritage: "Icarus-Whose-Wings-Are-Made-of-Some-Unmeltable-Compound."
Yet, beneath the bowers of his charm eddy pensive shadows of melancholy and discontent, hinting at an unfathomably deep--though, alas, lonely--nature . . . perhaps the consequence of an unrequited passion for the world and all of its splendid miseries.
Mr. White has not written a word in almost an entire year; for, as he states, the sheer verisimilitude and ebullience of his massive, ever sprawling cachet of emulators is his ultimate, never-ending work of art, over which he presides as a marionette. Never again, he says, will he dare deliver the naive wisdom of his heart unto the devastatingly bleak abysm of his "all-too-worldly world." He was born in 1976.
His Works
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