Freedom to comprehend within a fictive construct a personal ethic, even as we know art answers only for itself, is a freedom to seize. The old quantum mechanist would answer that light is finally constituted of neither. It is really neither, because it is both and yet more than both, as well. Because the fiction, when it is perceived by a reader, is passed through an entirely separate, reconstituting imagination, undergoing wholly unpredictable transformations. This is why there can never be absolute, quantitative scales with which to establish relative values of fictional work.
Clarity comes only from completeness.
Eggs poached in olive oil. Only in northern Italy can such voluptuous culinary abandon occur. Warm bread to sop the oil from this white shallow bowl. The essential problem with answering such questions as where is your work leading you, where is it going, is that, of course,armed even with the best intentions and well-marked maps, one cannot know. It could be that one should not know.