Archive for the ‘ LITERATURE ’ Category
Walked back from BritLit in the warm rain and had vivid flashbacks to England again. Sometimes I think I would give up three of my cracked and cavitied molars just to be less self-aware. And three more to stop the compulsions to blog about it. (Do people have at least six molars?) Class today was occupied by [ READ MORE ]
“With faith in God comes faith in language; if God made us, then it is language that makes us better things than animals. If those who lived in the age of miracles could not be Authors of the world in the manner that God was, then they must have believed that authorship in a lesser [ READ MORE ]
Lord Cut-Glass, in his kitchen full of time, squats down alone to a dogdish, marked Fido, of peppery fish-scraps and listens to the voices of his sixty-six clocks, one for each year of his loony age, and watches, with love, their black-and-white moony loudlipped faces tocking the earth away: slow clocks, quick clocks, pendulumed heart-knocks, [ READ MORE ]
Not to the day, of course, but I still feel dead. “The lust and lilt and lather and emerald breeze and crackle of the bird-praise and body of Spring with its breasts full of rivering May-milk, means, to that lordly fish-head nibbler, nothing but another nearness to the tribes and navies of the Last Black [ READ MORE ]
What? 14: I am tired of gin. Seriously, who’d've thought it’d be so? The rest of this is sullen and pouty. Ulysses makes me feel funny, except I’m only on page 47 and am the slightest bit lost when it comes to grasping any central concept yet… Other than LET’S SHIT ON IRELAND and KEEP THE [ READ MORE ]
I came to the sudden realization today that if this were all printed out, it would be enough to hold in your hands like a novel. But of what? I’ve written an autobiography of whinery and bitchery, with puke to my name. And, okay, a smattering of fart jokes. Finished A Gate at the Stairs. Cried [ READ MORE ]
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain. Tidmarsh wanted us to read Astrophel and Stella to someone exotic in bed. Granted, I’m 5 months late and doing it alone (albeit with a Bulgarian chatting on the line in the background) but after five [ READ MORE ]
My parents are going away tomorrow and coming back Monday because they “need time away.” From what? Conveniently, I’ll still be here, but I leave on Monday. Convenient. During our incredibly lavish dinner at Nobu in Tribeca, (over a spread the likes of which I’ll never see again until I marry an oil tycoon,) Andrew and Dan mentioned [ READ MORE ]
As Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s R. L. Been, sang: Tread softly, you tread on my dreams. Manifested as Andy Fastow. HAY, ANDAYYY. I’m completely kidding. I’m sitting at my desk on this quiet Sunday eve, gnawing on frozen Cadbury chocolate and pondering the book I just finished . . . Dan Brown’s latest turd, The Lost Symbol. [ READ MORE ]
“Inasmuch as my arms are full of compass roses, I know exactly where I’m going. That’s my love there in the swivel chair. I’m the sugarbowl on wheels.” C’est claire que je suis une Americaine, n’est-ce pas? Donc, si vous pouvez, je lis mieux que je parle. I have to find a way to dissolve [ READ MORE ]
Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.
