Upkeep

I see that Gunter Grass has an explanatory note in the upcoming New Yorker, it is likely an excerpt from his now infamous autobiography. I look forward to printing the article and reading it at my leisure. Speaking of which, I was rather fatigued last night, but the Bolano I ordered last week had arrived. There was but the slimmest twinge of disappointment as it was a collection of stories, given my impatient for the truncated form, I took quick consolation that Bolano, at least in the contours of Savage Detectives, prevaricates any nominal distinction between Novel and Story.
I have now read six of the stories and I find the majority rather moving, listless figures for whom Literature remains fire. I envy such. Books remain so crucial yet I feel that so much effort is exhausted , such mighty expanses of compassion released that it is but a loan-lease arrangement through life's corridors. perhaps if there was job where you didn't need to care so DAMN much. perhaps if the world operated in a somewhat sane semblance.
I need to climb on board the Kinglsey bio, I fear that Roger is surfing along, chuckling all the while to himself and that should I remain tardy, my pointed rebukes will be of small significance and well-passed vitality.