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My Fever
For the last week, a fever has been kicking my ass.
At the same time, in the moments where my brain hasn’t been too soft and clouded to concentrate on reading, something else has been kicking my ass. It’s Bill Cotter‘s book, Fever Chart now available from McSweeney‘s.
Jerome Coe, whose narration is touched by the unreliability of his sanity, finds himself in New Orleans after some time in and out of institutions in New England. He travels there with a stranger in search of the home of a woman—a fellow inmate who has died in a car crash—he had fallen in love with. Jerome will fall in love again and again in Fever Chart, and it will not go well.
It’s a dark book. Funny, sure—Jerome has episodes where he hallucinates thought balloons filled with Scrabble tiles telling him what to do—but dark. It’s been compared to A Confederacy of Dunces (even by the publisher), but beyond the setting, I’m not precisely sure it’s a apt comparison. Jerome is surrounded by large characters, but he himself is small, pushed to action and reaction by those around him. Ignatius Reilly pushed his rotundity around, bumping into the world, forcing himself on others. Coe runs from the world, runs from doctors, sleeps under his bed, falls in love with women he will never actually speak to.
Fever Chart is an excellent piece of writing, solid sentence to sentence. I’m enjoying it quite a bit.
Most of the time.
The thing is, I’ve been sick enough that I’ve had some trouble being emotionally centered. My fever brain is already a little unsettled, and the more unsettling sections of the book—Coe’s hand is mistreated on multiple occasions in the story—have only helped to further fry my ego.
Ever encounter a book at a really bad time, and really enjoy the book, but also notice the book fucking with you? Tell me about it.
Fevered delirium is the worst. When I was sick, I kept imagining these awful physical sensations that I would attach to breathing out, or blinking; each time I blinked I’d feel uncomfortable; these odd feedback loops that I couldn’t escape. I felt obsessive and compulsive and most of all sweaty.
Reading Finnegans Wake was a trip.
I’m hoping you feel better quick.
Fevered delirium is the worst. When I was sick, I kept imagining these awful physical sensations that I would attach to breathing out, or blinking; each time I blinked I’d feel uncomfortable; these odd feedback loops that I couldn’t escape. I felt obsessive and compulsive and most of all sweaty.
Reading Finnegans Wake was a trip.
I’m hoping you feel better quick.
Fevered delirium is the worst. When I was sick, I kept imagining these awful physical sensations that I would attach to breathing out, or blinking; each time I blinked I’d feel uncomfortable; these odd feedback loops that I couldn’t escape. I felt obsessive and compulsive and most of all sweaty.
Reading Finnegans Wake was a trip.
I’m hoping you feel better quick.
My most common fever delusion as a child was of a daisy being crushed by dirt pouring off a dump truck. I could feel it. I could TASTE it. I was the daisy. I was the dirt.
I’m only about halfway through this book, but truly do love it. I just read this moment where Jerome is in line at a thrift store, and the woman behind him gets a nosebleed.
“Then from above her mouth, a wide red ribbon began to unroll. It followed the contours of her lips, and of her tongue, which had reflexively darted out to taste it. A thick, lush ribbon; shiny, without a trace of weave. The ribbon paused at her chin, then fell heavily. I rushed forward with my hands cupped and caught the ribbon in midstream. She jumped back and some of the blood splashed onto her white T-shirt.”
It goes on.
My most common fever delusion as a child was of a daisy being crushed by dirt pouring off a dump truck. I could feel it. I could TASTE it. I was the daisy. I was the dirt.
I’m only about halfway through this book, but truly do love it. I just read this moment where Jerome is in line at a thrift store, and the woman behind him gets a nosebleed.
“Then from above her mouth, a wide red ribbon began to unroll. It followed the contours of her lips, and of her tongue, which had reflexively darted out to taste it. A thick, lush ribbon; shiny, without a trace of weave. The ribbon paused at her chin, then fell heavily. I rushed forward with my hands cupped and caught the ribbon in midstream. She jumped back and some of the blood splashed onto her white T-shirt.”
It goes on.
My most common fever delusion as a child was of a daisy being crushed by dirt pouring off a dump truck. I could feel it. I could TASTE it. I was the daisy. I was the dirt.
I’m only about halfway through this book, but truly do love it. I just read this moment where Jerome is in line at a thrift store, and the woman behind him gets a nosebleed.
“Then from above her mouth, a wide red ribbon began to unroll. It followed the contours of her lips, and of her tongue, which had reflexively darted out to taste it. A thick, lush ribbon; shiny, without a trace of weave. The ribbon paused at her chin, then fell heavily. I rushed forward with my hands cupped and caught the ribbon in midstream. She jumped back and some of the blood splashed onto her white T-shirt.”
It goes on.
This is a great question. I read “Infinite Jest” while recovering from surgery. I was taking a lot of codeine at the time. At one point, I thought Wallace had got some important detail of tennis wrong, and I thought, “I’ve been playing tennis for years, and I know he’s wrong about this.” Then I realized I had never played tennis before in my life, or watched tennis, or thought about playing or watching tennis. At all.
So I stopped reading it and waited until I’d recovered to read it.
I can’t really read when I’m sick. I’m an emotional/sentimental reader anyway; when I’m sick, I’m a hysterical reader. Maybe that’s not a bad thing though I suspect it probably is.
This is a great question. I read “Infinite Jest” while recovering from surgery. I was taking a lot of codeine at the time. At one point, I thought Wallace had got some important detail of tennis wrong, and I thought, “I’ve been playing tennis for years, and I know he’s wrong about this.” Then I realized I had never played tennis before in my life, or watched tennis, or thought about playing or watching tennis. At all.
So I stopped reading it and waited until I’d recovered to read it.
I can’t really read when I’m sick. I’m an emotional/sentimental reader anyway; when I’m sick, I’m a hysterical reader. Maybe that’s not a bad thing though I suspect it probably is.
This is a great question. I read “Infinite Jest” while recovering from surgery. I was taking a lot of codeine at the time. At one point, I thought Wallace had got some important detail of tennis wrong, and I thought, “I’ve been playing tennis for years, and I know he’s wrong about this.” Then I realized I had never played tennis before in my life, or watched tennis, or thought about playing or watching tennis. At all.
So I stopped reading it and waited until I’d recovered to read it.
I can’t really read when I’m sick. I’m an emotional/sentimental reader anyway; when I’m sick, I’m a hysterical reader. Maybe that’s not a bad thing though I suspect it probably is.
I first encountered Will Self’s book Great Apes at a point when my personal life was in a bit of a mess, and my feelings about the stability of my sanity were not as firm as they are now. (Ah, the early 20s.) Honestly, I thought that book was going to drive me completely over the edge. I stopped reading it and didn’t pick it up again for 6 or 7 years. I eventually finished it and thought it was a hoot. (Or a pant-hoot, I suppose.)
(Just finished Fever Chart a couple of hours ago. Gets better and better.)
I first encountered Will Self’s book Great Apes at a point when my personal life was in a bit of a mess, and my feelings about the stability of my sanity were not as firm as they are now. (Ah, the early 20s.) Honestly, I thought that book was going to drive me completely over the edge. I stopped reading it and didn’t pick it up again for 6 or 7 years. I eventually finished it and thought it was a hoot. (Or a pant-hoot, I suppose.)
(Just finished Fever Chart a couple of hours ago. Gets better and better.)
I first encountered Will Self’s book Great Apes at a point when my personal life was in a bit of a mess, and my feelings about the stability of my sanity were not as firm as they are now. (Ah, the early 20s.) Honestly, I thought that book was going to drive me completely over the edge. I stopped reading it and didn’t pick it up again for 6 or 7 years. I eventually finished it and thought it was a hoot. (Or a pant-hoot, I suppose.)
(Just finished Fever Chart a couple of hours ago. Gets better and better.)
Ordered Fever Chart.
Man. At the lowest emotional point of my life, I took a college class in Literature of the Holocaust. Sadly, that was only like the ninth-worst decision I have made, feelings-wise.
I mean, the class was incredible. Life-changing. Literally, not Natalie Portman/Shins life-changing, but actually life-changing. But shit. If I had to do a NBC “The More You Know” ad, it would be like, “Kids, if you are depressed, do not read Tadeusz Borowski. Fucking DO NOT DO IT.”
Ordered Fever Chart.
Man. At the lowest emotional point of my life, I took a college class in Literature of the Holocaust. Sadly, that was only like the ninth-worst decision I have made, feelings-wise.
I mean, the class was incredible. Life-changing. Literally, not Natalie Portman/Shins life-changing, but actually life-changing. But shit. If I had to do a NBC “The More You Know” ad, it would be like, “Kids, if you are depressed, do not read Tadeusz Borowski. Fucking DO NOT DO IT.”
Ordered Fever Chart.
Man. At the lowest emotional point of my life, I took a college class in Literature of the Holocaust. Sadly, that was only like the ninth-worst decision I have made, feelings-wise.
I mean, the class was incredible. Life-changing. Literally, not Natalie Portman/Shins life-changing, but actually life-changing. But shit. If I had to do a NBC “The More You Know” ad, it would be like, “Kids, if you are depressed, do not read Tadeusz Borowski. Fucking DO NOT DO IT.”
Literature of the Holocaust? You didn’t happen to go to University of Iowa, did you? This wasn’t Jay Holstein’s class, was it?
Literature of the Holocaust? You didn’t happen to go to University of Iowa, did you? This wasn’t Jay Holstein’s class, was it?
Literature of the Holocaust? You didn’t happen to go to University of Iowa, did you? This wasn’t Jay Holstein’s class, was it?
No, this was Texas A&M University, which is kind of like Iowa in that it belongs to an athletic conference that begins with the word “Big.” I think the similarities end there, though. Iowa is known for its literature and creative writing; A&M is more about poultry science and parks management.
It was a great class, though. D. G. Myers was the professor. He’s an amazing guy:
http://dgmyers.blogspot.com/
No, this was Texas A&M University, which is kind of like Iowa in that it belongs to an athletic conference that begins with the word “Big.” I think the similarities end there, though. Iowa is known for its literature and creative writing; A&M is more about poultry science and parks management.
It was a great class, though. D. G. Myers was the professor. He’s an amazing guy:
http://dgmyers.blogspot.com/
No, this was Texas A&M University, which is kind of like Iowa in that it belongs to an athletic conference that begins with the word “Big.” I think the similarities end there, though. Iowa is known for its literature and creative writing; A&M is more about poultry science and parks management.
It was a great class, though. D. G. Myers was the professor. He’s an amazing guy:
http://dgmyers.blogspot.com/
Holstein was a bit of a superstar:
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT_1Kw24TQo
Holstein was a bit of a superstar:
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT_1Kw24TQo
Holstein was a bit of a superstar:
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT_1Kw24TQo
Wow.
Wow.
Wow.
Holy crap. That dude’s like R. Lee Ermey mixed with Larry David. I kind of love him.
Holy crap. That dude’s like R. Lee Ermey mixed with Larry David. I kind of love him.
Holy crap. That dude’s like R. Lee Ermey mixed with Larry David. I kind of love him.
He was amazing. I remember him starting a lecture by talking about playing basketball on the driveway with his son, and his son—getting older, getting stronger, getting better than his dad—asked him whether or not he had a Majerle vein. (It was a reference to Dan Majerle’s large, powerful tricep muscles, so well-defined, they had a single prominent vein running from top to bottom.) The kid did, dad no longer. Then he talked about sons, fathers, honoring thy father, legacy, the Judaic roots of Christianity, etc.
He was amazing. I remember him starting a lecture by talking about playing basketball on the driveway with his son, and his son—getting older, getting stronger, getting better than his dad—asked him whether or not he had a Majerle vein. (It was a reference to Dan Majerle’s large, powerful tricep muscles, so well-defined, they had a single prominent vein running from top to bottom.) The kid did, dad no longer. Then he talked about sons, fathers, honoring thy father, legacy, the Judaic roots of Christianity, etc.
He was amazing. I remember him starting a lecture by talking about playing basketball on the driveway with his son, and his son—getting older, getting stronger, getting better than his dad—asked him whether or not he had a Majerle vein. (It was a reference to Dan Majerle’s large, powerful tricep muscles, so well-defined, they had a single prominent vein running from top to bottom.) The kid did, dad no longer. Then he talked about sons, fathers, honoring thy father, legacy, the Judaic roots of Christianity, etc.
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