April: I Am No One You Know
May: You Are No One I Know
June: Love: A Rape Story After A Love Story
July: Brunette: A Novel
September: We Are No One Anyone Knows
October: My Quill Can’t Stop
November: Because the Heart Always Patters Twice
December: You Must Remember This Book

The Rake points to this very long, very detailed Paul Auster analysis that I too will have to read later. I haven’t been much of an Auster fan, for reasons similar to B.R. Myers’ “A Reader’s Manifesto.” But I’m always willing to give any well-regarded author another shot (even if The New York Trilogy left me very annoyed). Will someone explain why Auster’s the shit? Will someone tell me why this Peter Stillman nonsense is so important? (I should also note that I’m crazy about William Gaddis, John Barth, Donald Barthelme, David Foster Wallace, and Robert Coover. Hell, I’m even partial towards the manic detailer Nicholson Baker. So why not Auster? It’s not pomo per se that’s the problem here.)

Static, and therefore miserable condition of a man emerging from a Sunday morning hangover! One minute, joyful pitter-patter, the next minute, ache and perdition. I wish I could express surprise, or impute the same bemused wonder as my retinue of aching twentysomething acolytes, but, alas, there have been multiple notches on my belt, too many empty bottles, and not nearly enough experiences to get me to stop. Why do men drink so? We study the narcotic effects of these infernal beverages, deliberating upon how the malt and the shaker and the smooth texture of Kahlua enters our corpi and causes us intoxication, occasional fumblings, followed by distress. O miserable condition of drink! which was not imparted onto Adam when Our Lord granted him Paradise. If Adam had wrapped his fingers around the goblet, perhaps we would not have suffered Eve’s celebrated mistake, or perhaps the Serpent would not have distracted Eve so. For Adam and Eve, naked in Paradise, engaging in carnal play that, after their explusion, translated into shame and stigma extending into the current age, now a hue and cry pertaining to Janet’s Nipple! be still!

Before this topiary business, and presumably before drink, no doubt men and women were engaged in the Act which led to their shapes being contorted, and led further to interesting shadows caused by the flickering flames of their lust. Adjustments, multiple positions, one saying “Oooh!” and another saying “Yeah there!” Disgraceful banter that a proper lady or a distinguished gentleman would not utter while perambulating down a nave, or wolfing on wafers, save through unpredictable conditions of surprise, such as a Merry Prankster (not a PL or a DG) emerging from the pew’s mews, only to offer a Weegee in lieu of a Handshake. Is the Merry Prankster’s deportment related to the addled and aching head of our Sunday morning man or the originators of this carnal activity? Obvious rhetoric, tip-top conclusions, and Janet’s Nipple, alas, draped in some devilish adornment.

It is a question of what is profane and what is natural. Ancestors doing an enjoyable mamba (what non-PLs and non-DGs call “fucking” or “a romp” or “making love”), only to have desires besmirched by the iron fist of authority and reverence, further obviating the flames and the dilemma, in situ. And yet no reference to drink or cause or Paradise! This is the shame which hangs upon exorbitant fees and unnecessary protection from tiny pitchers having big ears, who will learn this anyway!

To which one can only reply, “Pass the bottle!”

Sadly, I have nothing really profound or funny to say this morning — at least, publicly. But thankfully, Sarah’s served up some solid commentary on the “book a year” problem. (Three adverbs in one post. Does that clarify matters?)

Zadie Smith is torturing her downstairs neighbor. Smith has a tendency to relax in a whirlpool after writing all day. But the pool’s motor whirs so loudly that the walls have been shaking. Hendley Taylor, the man who lives next to her, has been losing sleep over Smith’s routine.