Derrida on Yes in Ulyesss
“ULYSSES GRAMOPHONE: Hear say yes in Joyce”
Speaking of Joyce. Some the best writing on reading I maybe ever. Don’t worry if you ain’t Ulyssesed. No soft spots on the grindstone.
Reynard Seifert—
lmfao if you still think you are a beautiful & unique snowflake
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A torrent search for “wikipedia” that returns nothing & everything
At some point in your life, you should probably chop off all your hair.
Twitter is the very best or worst thing that has ever happened to literature.
Blog comments as a close second, Facebook a far flung turd.
I stared at an abandoned, waterlogged, pink stuffed animal splayed ass-up on a rail for months, smoking cigarettes, trying to figure what it said.
For a couple of days a matching, stringless acoustic guitar stood watch over it.
What happens to music that isn’t recorded, or played. Is it?
Reynard Seifert—
“When he was nineteen, writing La Doublure . . . Roussel felt a literal brilliance running all throughout his person, his writing implements, and his room. The light was so dazzling he had to draw the curtains, afraid that anyone who saw him would be blinded by the rays streaming out of his face.” — Ben Marcus
ToBS R2: ‘magic realism’ vs. Alcoholism
[Matchup #33 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Gabriel Garcia Marquez dropped his iPhone on the sidewalk. A crack shot through the street sending fire hydrants blasting into the sky, splitting the 9/11 Memorial in two, setting the Wall Street Bull a-bucking after a bunch of shrieking schoolgirls in preppy outfits. No, wait. As Gabriel Garcia Marquez took an upskirt of himself on the base of the Statue of Liberty, Alcoholism stumbled over and sent his iPhone tracing a slow arc to the sea. When Marquez looked up Alcoholism held one of those Zack Morris phones to his face and said, “I’m at your house.” Gabriel paled as he reached for the phone. Alcoholism punched him in the nose with it. “Just kidding, jackass. I went to your house but you weren’t there. So I burned it down.” Gabriel held his bloody nose in both hands peering through a pair of watery almonds. “By the by, saw those penis enlargement pills in your medicine cabinet. Are those for your clit?” Before Marquez could stutter, Alcoholism reared a fist and hooked a hole through his face, which contorted into hyperbole. “L-O-L,” slurred Alcoholism. “Who do you think you are, Franz-fucking-Kafka? I think no.” READ MORE >