Disclosure Isn't Free

I 've seemingly been incessantly without any great evocation. I've completed five books in the last week with the greatest being Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov. The need to write has diminished as of late. I am planning on making April an all Japanese month. I may jump the gun with Kitchen. Presently I am divided between Hans Fallada's Wolf Among Wolves and A Harlot High and Low by Balzac.

Citations

“There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.” - Jerzy Kozinski

Anytime things were going right for you, the future of the world seemed bright. Anytime they were going wrong, the imminent collapse of civilization was at hand. Can't you see how thoroughly you projected your own subjective vision of reality on the world? - Ryan Boudinot

Supplements

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRJPsiM8VfE

http://htmlgiant.com/author-spotlight/the-soul-transformative-experience-of-writing-itself-an-interview-with-ryan-boudinot/

Completed

Maybe it is Speculative March and I wasn't aware. I finished the Ackroyd on Dee and then devoured Blueprints Of The Afterlife by Ryan Boudinot. Inexplicably I then launched into dual reading of George Orwell's Burmese days, which isn't speculative and a rather damning view of colonialism and The Passage by Justin Cronin which contains a good bad novel within its hulk. I completed the Orwell and found it adroit.

Henryville and Homs

Te tragic is predicated on an arc of stability. My own travails mach heady allowances for such. Reports from Syria don't fail to depress me daily. My own concerns appear trivial, like my dissatisfaction with the last two books I finished. Yesterday a series of tornadoes struck near here, pelting my friend Tony Euler's house with hail but sparing him the destruction inflicted upon his neighbors.

I suppose some relief is in order. The lamented books included The house of Doctor Dee by Peter Ackroyd and William Dalrymple's From The Holy Mountain: A Journey in the Shadow of Byzantium. There were redeeming aspects to both but I felt an ongoing irritation with such. Previously I had concluded a fine pair of books: Muriel Spark's The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and Iain Sinclair's hulking Hackney, That Rose-Red Empire.