Thursday, March 23, 2006


An enjoyable interlude has ensued. Thinking about astro doubles, Borges and the roughly two thousand pages of prose I have planned for the next (what, two, three) months) I am thinking of travel, of Delueze (he postulated on nomadic thought, yet never travelled and then took his own life) and that I had planned earlier to read the Boswell in Serbia. I think I may attempt Proust now, when travelling back. I was going to write Tihana yesterday and tell her that I through for the time being with settling for good literature and wanted to raise my ambitions accordingly. Alas, I only told my wife who was moaning from influenza.

My frown towards Nocturnal Butterflies has been mitigated in the last hour. There is much to appreciate in the text, the epistolary angle anyway. I recall years ago (12?)that I bought a biography of Henry Miller for Joel and he responded sometime later that he was not destined to be a writer, not at least in the rigorous passionate sense, because to be such, for historical example, one would need to compose lengthy letters. I smile when I consider the reams of text that he has since deposited in my inbox and on the besmirched soil of samizdat.


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