- I need a break from Marcel, the fucker won't shut up
- I poetry my fiction, not fiction my poetry
- It's my life
- January I bought new pb edition McElroy's
- Lordy, to hold when I desire an object to hold
- I have failed the novel (though not his others) three times, maybe four, each time before I could read Proust
- I read in bed then, I blame the hardback cinderblock (and is true
- - pictures of Bernadette -
- the first paperback scarce, hard to find, stupid expensive)
- then pivot, correctly blame me
- (the paperback cinderblock fucks up my backpack's stomach)
- It's getting late in the evening
- I'm thirty pages past the page of my bookmark in the hardback on my bookshelf
- give it up
- I credit the paperback, an excellent object to hold
- Talk talk, rest in peace Mark Hollis
- Do you do this: open a novel somewhere in the (my habit) middle third and read a good page then start from the beginning for that deju vu tingle you read the page before? if no, try!
- somewhere between pages 400 and 800 awaits my next rush
- I shove Proust to the sideline to read his descendants
- back to Marcel a week Sunday latest betcha
There are a great many things in the world which you never heard of; and a great many more which nobody ever heard of; the picture of happiness which you harbor is steeped through and through in the time which the course of your existence has conferred on you; this could equally be the picture of unhappiness, and it is possible you would never know it.
Deep beneath the sea a puppet in Turkish attire, water-pipe in mouth, sits before a chessboard, which rests on a broad table upon the sea-floor. Through a system of submarine mirrors, the illusion is created that this table is transparent on all sides. In truth, a hunchbacked dwarf who is a master chess-player sits under the table, controlling the hands of the puppet with slippery strings. All you will ever know of this must be read from the shape and size of the bubbles which rise toward the surface, shimmering in a lucent green dimension in which the course of your existence is steeped.