At A Standstill

I have consumed 40 or more novels a year every year of my adulthood and I am well acquainted with the cathartic. Steve Powell used to smirk that my life had been changed innumerable times and thus had drifted far outside the verdant shrubs of recognition. Perhaps Steve was right but i have been in a daze for a few days now over The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. There is something both manic and terminally solitary about the book. Its pages practically weep and not with panting ideology of youth, (Ms. McCullers was but a pup when she penned the epic) but with a timeless urgency towards that unspeakable alienation which creeps towards us all in repose, besmirching our veneer of self-respect.

I am supposed to be reading Collapse with my mates but I sense myself looking inward for traces and whispers of Mick Kelly, Biff and Singer. Carson had nerve even if she was a lush, lord knows few do, though I shan't draw attention to the Vessels of Rage text once chanced upon by Brother Joel. My friend Ed said that he is bound to reading fiction these days, I can certainly empathize.