He hugged tighter, self against self, jolted again by the shock of his own nature, the reflex that would always kick him into writing the very things he would like to leave lie, into staring where he shouldn't even look, because that was where the life was. There was never a genuine choice involved, never the chance to skim out the hurt and leave the joy, to edit his commitment--there was only his mindless, nerveless appetite, the knife-point compulsion to make all of everything speak, no matter what--to always try for that. If it would make for a better sentence, he knew, he'd consent to anything.
--A.L. Kennedy, Everything You Need
A bang, not a whimper
Two months into L.'s retirement, and I'm finished with the stockpiling of books. No more book purchases! Or at least, no purcha...
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(See also Musee des Beaux Arts ) As far as mental anguish goes, the old painters were no fools. They understood how the mind, the freakiest ...
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When I finished Kevin Brockmeier's A Brief History of the Dead last spring I immediately did a search to see if the Coca-Cola Corp. had...
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