I'm three-quarters through Beckett's Molloy. It's the first time I've read it, feels like the fifth, feels exactly like rereading Moby Dick for the fifth time did last Fall, the love, the fuck you, the laughs, the fuck you. Being dicked willingly by an author who wants you to know you being dicked is an awesome and sore joy. I haven't laughed out loud more at a novel since the last time I did until the next time I do. I've not said Fuck this novel then compulsively picked it up again since rereading Moby Dick for the fifth time which pitched me into a colossal reading slump. Holyfuck, I've high and unreasonable hopes for a colossal reading slump after Beckett's trilogy.
- Redefine happiness.
- A fluffer, a nutter! And I begrudge it.
- I wonder why. David Fucking Broder rules our world.
- And Tom Motherfucking Friedman too, who today farts to remind you to remain scared.
- Obama and Gandhi.
- Our big, fat, invisible wars.
- Kangaroo courts.
- Healers lose, parasites win.
- They're both right, they're both wrong.
- Fears of a carnal-minded society.
- Homosexual-menace comix!
- Christers aren't Christians, the motherfuckers.
- Like I said yesterday, looking for the rational explanation in NBC's rationale in the Olbermann suspension is a rube's game.
- Reason to rename blog BLCKCTRD.
- Debating the canon is always fun.
- Albums for Autumn, part one, part two.
- Autumn songs.
- Ten classical tear-jerkers.
- Joni Mitchell is sixty-seven today.
dragging his hinger through the sky
of my skull shell of sky and earth
strooping to the prone who must
soon take up their life and walk
mocked by a tissue that may not serve
till hunger earth and sky be offal