Important: You, as an earthworm, should read Daniel Spoerri et al's An Anecdoted Topography of Chance. It anticipated the Web, not to mentioned David Foster Wallace's writing style, decades ahead of the advent of either. Here. Buy me this copy and I'll loan it to you.
Went to the Museum of American Art this morning -- wonderful. Bill Christenberry curated a selection of folk art. Learn about Hampton's secret language. "FEAR NOT" crowns the Throne of the Third Millenium (what's the right name?).
Bible as a tale of human psychological development. Was there a time when we were in a paradise, more animal than human? Ejection from the Garden = arrival of the superego. The story of the species is our story, unavoidably. Yet we rarely think from that perspective, right?
Our lives make fascinating curves when seen from afar, like the kinks in a river. A perspective we rarely achieve, though. I'm so full of shit, talking in the "we" case.
It was only in the last year of his life that Kafka found happiness with a woman named Dora, whom he met at a Jewish holiday camp. People who knew him at the time said that he finally lost all his anxiety, became funny and cheerful. Once, while out for a walk with Dora, he met a little girl who was crying over a lost doll. Kafka spent the next several weeks writing letters to the girl from the lost doll, explaining where the doll had gone and what it was up to, and finally announcing that it, the doll, was getting married. Kafka wanted to get married that year too, but he died of tuberculosis. His last two novels, The Trial (1925) and The Castle (1926), were left unfinished.
I'm polishing off a so-so Shiraz. It takes a confident man to look like shit.
Posted by nedlog at July 29, 2006 4:54 PM | TrackBack