Sullen Seed

There still remains the stench of onanism in this rite. Much as I contend such, I reluctantly return to my own shame and such is proliferated into the realm of mortal hubris. Much as I read all of the recent Murakami in a single sabbath ten days ago, I attempted the same feat this past weekend and only managed a hundred pages of Hollinghurst's Line of Beauty. Being felled by the ague the following morn, I awoke somewhat convalesced and read up to page 230 or so. It is a strange novel of manners, all cloaked in the gauze of homosexuality and the upper-castes of the Thatcher years. I can't help but juxtapose it with my own myriad experiences on the British Isles.

While it maintains its pose towards Henry James, I can't stop thinking of Waugh, especially the Waugh of Scoop and Vile Bodies and, no, darling, i won't wait for the picture.