Oh Proust of the protean comparison, ascending structured convections-in-clause, clauseburster, rolling and rippling filaments that supremely calmed you trace, enthroned between them, a king of heavens, who we should call by the name Working Memory, or Honeycomb, cloud-castellan, king of heaven, my lord do you see that I am much like you. And I am chained to your fate too, yes? With one sole justification for my existence. To go to the wordmother, to green forever in her laurel crown, leaving the earthmother stood up on the day when we were to meet in the catacomb.
but there are probably tons of those bloody things, compelled.
A long time ago someone very wise told me it was good to imagine yourself where you would be in a few years. And then she told me she imagined me on one of those tandem bikes, in one of those tightfitted lightcolored circa 1900 suits with my honey riding behind me. what the hell?
Those flat caps don’t even fit my head. How strange the leaves of time you pluck in a hurricane. Le vent se lève, il faut tenter de vivre.
I plucked this out of the space between waking and dreaming this morning. I think it was a memory placed inside a dream because it was so exactly like something she would say, though the setting in which the reel played had certain temporal incongruities. But the other possibility is that, like the Queen of Languages, I have gained the wherewithal of simulating certain individuals. Both possibilities comfort and terrify me.
Contrary to what you’d expect from, like, the masthead, the NYRB didn’t suck. And it didn’t suck for an amazing span of time, from its inception to at least now. But now the editor has died and it will probably begin to suck. The devourer attacks us on all fronts. I think I am developing zee gout. And future hedge scholars will be even less taught.