Self Help
(my musical choices over the past 95 minutes have ventured from John Zorn's Naked City to Chant D'amour by Cecilia Bartoli to Time The Revelator by Gillian Welch, such may clarify what I am attempting to expound)
To borrow a phrase from Carlos Fuentes, my own customshouse of concepts readily pounces upon efforts at ontology, sweeping theories that explain everything. God, I hate even typing sentences like that. I am rather moody today. I am also on holiday. Joel Vessels is my closes friend, by that I mean that I am closer to him than anyone other than those: a) I'm married to (or) b)is blessed with profound disabilities. It shouldn't be surmised that I am close EVERYONE profoundly disabled, only two of them if fact, cultivate this strength of bond. Joel has a PhD, he's smart. He said recently in associating literature to politics that Tolstoy is to Lenin as Dostoevsky is to Rasputin. I admire that. I am rereading the Brothers Karamazov with my wife. It has been a solitary day. My thoughts were previously imbued morose, more in a self-deprecating manner. I feel better now. It is impossible to return to that gauze of mind that I was equipped with when I first read this novel. That 1992 and I had just met Roger Baylor and imagined myself a Hamlet, perhaps a Mersault hoping to avoid sunny afternoons at the beach. Now I am old.
I felt rather insipid to discover Patrick White. I understand the scope of the world and the written word. I felt a Joycean urge just now. I have enjoyed this afternoon smoking and reading about Father Zosima. I had forgotten the parts of the novel where he is actually still alive. My friend Ed lamented recently that Harold's decision to sell his store and retire has left a gap. I concur, though I regard it as a gaping wound.
I discovered a genre writer today named Jeff Noon. He is from Manchester and apparently wishes a change in the world, at least of how we read books. His ideas are cool, but ideas at the end of the day.
Russia may be a land of holy fools and despots. Fuck Martin Amis. There is a certain longing in that land's prose: I can't readily speak for the tongue or its verse. My plan for the week is to reach p.150 or so in the Dostoevsky and then read one of the incipient White novels upon their arrival. I aim rather high, you see.
To borrow a phrase from Carlos Fuentes, my own customshouse of concepts readily pounces upon efforts at ontology, sweeping theories that explain everything. God, I hate even typing sentences like that. I am rather moody today. I am also on holiday. Joel Vessels is my closes friend, by that I mean that I am closer to him than anyone other than those: a) I'm married to (or) b)is blessed with profound disabilities. It shouldn't be surmised that I am close EVERYONE profoundly disabled, only two of them if fact, cultivate this strength of bond. Joel has a PhD, he's smart. He said recently in associating literature to politics that Tolstoy is to Lenin as Dostoevsky is to Rasputin. I admire that. I am rereading the Brothers Karamazov with my wife. It has been a solitary day. My thoughts were previously imbued morose, more in a self-deprecating manner. I feel better now. It is impossible to return to that gauze of mind that I was equipped with when I first read this novel. That 1992 and I had just met Roger Baylor and imagined myself a Hamlet, perhaps a Mersault hoping to avoid sunny afternoons at the beach. Now I am old.
I felt rather insipid to discover Patrick White. I understand the scope of the world and the written word. I felt a Joycean urge just now. I have enjoyed this afternoon smoking and reading about Father Zosima. I had forgotten the parts of the novel where he is actually still alive. My friend Ed lamented recently that Harold's decision to sell his store and retire has left a gap. I concur, though I regard it as a gaping wound.
I discovered a genre writer today named Jeff Noon. He is from Manchester and apparently wishes a change in the world, at least of how we read books. His ideas are cool, but ideas at the end of the day.
Russia may be a land of holy fools and despots. Fuck Martin Amis. There is a certain longing in that land's prose: I can't readily speak for the tongue or its verse. My plan for the week is to reach p.150 or so in the Dostoevsky and then read one of the incipient White novels upon their arrival. I aim rather high, you see.
posted by jon faith at
5:21 PM
1 Comments:
You familiar with a Brit author named Andrew Eames? Ed
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