Although Thomas’ mother didn’t give him a name until he was nine, it doesn’t mean she didn’t care about him. It could mean she was inherently lazy, or couldn’t fill out the blank spaces on his birth certificate. To say she was lazy, however, would be unfair, as she clearly gave birth to him, which suggests some effort on her part—unless Thomas just plopped out, which, assuming he was picked up off the floor afterwards, still implies effort. Moreover, describing her as illiterate is also an injustice, as coming up with a name, albeit belatedly, implies a basic grasp of spelling at the very least. Especially when it involves a capital. According to eye-witnesses of Thomas’ birth, of which there were none other than his mother, his arrival was heralded with the sort of obscenities that would make most newborns have second thoughts about being involved in anything other than amniotic fluid. Nevertheless, the plethora of curses erupting from the woman might go some way to explain Thomas’ borderline depravity when it comes to spelling and punctuation, both of which he’s not only struggled with over ten novels, but has, by an extraordinary feat of intellectual deficiency, shown no improvement in, whatsoever. Indeed, the class-action taken against him by the entire publishing industry says more about the literal inadequacies existing in his books than the intellectual inadequacies he demonstrated in creating them. As one article in the Guardian newspaper, a publication at the forefront of belittling Thomas’ writing, put it, "Corfield convolutes his supposed ideas with masses of inherent redundancy through a smear a random letters which on occasion resemble a traditional alphabet.” Ironically, this quote was used by Thomas’ barrister, Barrington Merchison-Merchison, during the twelve month legal ordeal the publishing industry brought against him. Fortunately, Thomas’ pathological levels of denial had him surviving the trial with only one nervous breakdown and two loosened cheeks. Thomas did, however, suffer the sort of financial bankruptcy that renders the notion of superannuation even more redundant than his flippant apostrophe use. Despite all this, Thomas’ mother did appear to be ahead of her time, considering she set fire to his first manuscript shortly after it was written; a practice now commonplace by the thousands who loathe his books. Indeed, sales of his Velvet Paw of Asquith novels grew significantly during the trial; copies being purchased with the sole intention of being burnt, rather than read. Joomag’s Anal Investor ezine estimates that more than three thousand copies of Corfield’s books have been incinerated since the trial began, with some ‘Saturday night book burnings’ even receiving local government support. “I don’t mind that the Dooven Books are being bought to be burnt,” said Thomas, “as it’s far better than reading the things. I’m just pleased a practical use has been found for them. After all, there’s a limit to how many wonky table legs can be propped up by books, unless tables are rendered wonky intentionally—something I find more worrying than people getting together on a Saturday night to burn my work, unless it’s very cold and there’s limited shelving available.”
It is not, however, as worrying as the mind that wrote them in the first place.