White Noise

This has literally become a season of death. Such is neither, I shrug.

My concerns with Naked and the Dead have multiplied on the damp underside. I have turned to Foucault's Pendulum as I am but the Peter Sellers of comparative literature. These last few days have been a joy of fellowship but have otherwise propped open a portal to madness and the torpid trippings of age.

There is a comfort in Eco; his trusted friendship will ease me into calmer waters.

What does my lost generation matter,
That lovely mirror,
If it was justified by your books.
I am the others. I am all those
That your obstinate rigor rescues.
I am those you do not know and those you save.

-- Borges