I’ve posted, like, a fabillion blog entries here today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought for sure this robot I programmed to “blog” for me while I vacationed in Latin America would keep it to one post a week, but clearly I got the coding all wrong and now R2Dumbass2 has gone all nutty and is just hitting “publish” on every stupid vignette.
Anyway, I just nibbled off a thumbnail while trying to write this book review, so I figured I might as well advertise its existence here in the off chance that I could drive a scant bit of traffic to The Shelf Life. Seriously, I don’t know why I get so worked up about posting over there. I have no idea what the traffic there is like, but it can’t be so big that it merits me mutilating my fingers every time I post. Maybe it’s that I don’t want to be judged by the literary masses. Yeah, that has to be it. They’re pretty much the only people on the planet I respect, so I’d really like it if they didn’t think I was a moron.
So this book I reviewed: Pretty interesting. I can recommend it to people who make it a habit to read this blog because I’m fairly sure that if you’ve stuck with me this long, you are a fan of melancholy and the macabre and the essential silliness of existence. And if you’ve suffered from the guilt that being a moody person often invites, you’ll surely enjoy knowing that your worldview isn’t defective, but is in fact seen by some people as the most authentic way of living because it strives to embrace the poles of human experience — the low lows and the high highs.
But let me know if you can get through the floridly poetic din without wanting to punch Eric Wilson in the kidney just once, for being so in love with his words that he couldn’t edit fifty pages out of the manuscript. I mean, I understand totally; I can’t self-edit worth a flip. Me wanting to punch him? That’s just my melancholy nature. It’s just who I am.