Jeff asked me the same thing in an email this morning. Another stupid list I said. But I hear Beloved is pretty good, I'll try to read it one day. I opined that of that NYT list, Things That They Carried was probably the best. I also recommended two love stories, Geek Love, by, I can't think of her name, and In The Time of Our Singing, by Richard Powers, who is on Mannion's list. Russo definitely. And I like Richard Price, not on his list. And earlier Robbin's. But, excuse me for saying so, fuck Pynchon. And I totally dug TC Boyle's, Tortilla Curtain. And I like the Brooklyn writers, Lethem, and the other guy I just read one of his but I can't think of his name right this minute. And every year I find another great writer I'd never known before, stupid lists.
Cities begin upon the day the Walls of the Shambles go up, to screen away Blood and Blood-letting, Animals' Cries, Smells and Soil, from residents already grown fragile before Country Realities. The Better-Off live as far as they may, from the concentration of Slaughter. Soon, Country Melancholicks are flocking to Town like Crows, dark'ning the Sun. Dress'd meats appear in the Market,- Sausages hang against the Sky, forming lines of Text, cryptick Intestinal Commentary.
It's a simple procedure. The crotch of the velvet costume is torn away. Muffage decides to dispense with shaving the scrotum. He douses it first with iodine, then squeezes in turn each testicle against the red veined and hairy bag, makes the incision quickly and cleanly through skin and surrounding membranes, popping the testicle itself out through the wound and welling blood, pulling it out with the left hand till the cords hard and soft are strung visible under the light. As if they are musical strings he might, a trifle moon-mad, strum here on the empty beach into appropriate music, his hand hesitates: but then, reluctantly bowing to duty, he severs them at the proper distances form the slippery stone, each incision then being bathed in disinfectant, and the two neat slits, side by side, finally sutured up again. The testicles are plopped into a bottle of alcohol.
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- jimlouis 5-13-2006 4:04 am
Cities begin upon the day the Walls of the Shambles go up, to screen away Blood and Blood-letting, Animals' Cries, Smells and Soil, from residents already grown fragile before Country Realities. The Better-Off live as far as they may, from the concentration of Slaughter. Soon, Country Melancholicks are flocking to Town like Crows, dark'ning the Sun. Dress'd meats appear in the Market,- Sausages hang against the Sky, forming lines of Text, cryptick Intestinal Commentary.
- Mason & Dixon (guest) 5-18-2006 12:36 am [add a comment]
It's a simple procedure. The crotch of the velvet costume is torn away. Muffage decides to dispense with shaving the scrotum. He douses it first with iodine, then squeezes in turn each testicle against the red veined and hairy bag, makes the incision quickly and cleanly through skin and surrounding membranes, popping the testicle itself out through the wound and welling blood, pulling it out with the left hand till the cords hard and soft are strung visible under the light. As if they are musical strings he might, a trifle moon-mad, strum here on the empty beach into appropriate music, his hand hesitates: but then, reluctantly bowing to duty, he severs them at the proper distances form the slippery stone, each incision then being bathed in disinfectant, and the two neat slits, side by side, finally sutured up again. The testicles are plopped into a bottle of alcohol.
- Gravity's Rainbow (guest) 5-18-2006 12:37 am [add a comment] [edit]