Muddy Anonyminity

I am Augie March. It is hopeless. Whatever aspirations towards speciality I might covet, the helpless truth is that I ramble. There were hopes that even my focus of literature from Russia and the deep South would only be fortified by the example of The Magic Mountain. Alas I was unaware that such a sudden, swift impulse would clamor, one that would demand that I be engulfed in the Murakami. It is days later, and i still feel uneasy in its wake. I have thought about its foundational shafts, 1001 Nights and the Tales of Genji are staked deep for assurence. The use of Yeats and John Coltrane. It is a good morning and the espresso is fine.

Re-engagement with Thomas Mann has been fecund in the last 24 hours. I have reached a new plateau of p. 300. The chapter Research which evidently signalled my surrender years ago, on my last attempt per ascension, was plowed through, the anatomical metaphors and unchecked theory were stunning, only to reach the origins of pathology and the definition of Sin.