"I am not going to comment on prosecution."-- Barack Obama
I wonder how well Cooksey knew his Fowles when he conceived his canceled series. I have too much else to do even to borrow the novel of the same title at the moment. None of you bothered to inform me about Terence Stamp and the film. Thank you so very much. Why should I worry about my audience when your timidity belies the necessity of having one? Fowles' irony is not totally lost on me, but I can remember only fragments of The French Lieutenant's Woman, nothing of the alternate endings beyond what the film vaguely calls to mind.
I can see now that Stamp was no doubt cast for the lead in The Mind of Mr. Soames because of The Collector, and some of you may remember my earlier preoccupation with Soames, its analog era thematic structure. Fowles worries something else, and exploits the dark side of acquisition more brutally than Henry James, (in physical aspects) though Fowles is probably equal to Balzac for melodramatic effect.
People seem to worship Ulysses as a matter of civic pride? As much as I love literature, to see a mock epic interior prose poem enshrined in a metropolis that became a backwater about five minutes after the Quakers ceded it to the huddled masses is discomfiting, literally. Once an excellent reader, I fucked up on my five minute passage with Gerty's burlesque so badly I fled the scene of Bloomsday virtually in tears. None of this was an intentional humiliation. I am struggling to keep a grasp on matriculation so wanted to stay involved, and the little museum made an effort to accommodate me, but when Lance offered me an out perhaps I should have retired.
It doesn't really matter when we aren't ready to die, does it? O yes, I will get to a lung center and explore my fucking options, but I'd like to see how you'd feel if you had to depend on slovenly insolent lard asses that make up the paraprofessional class. I hate them. I hate this city. I hate my family. I hate my simpleton ex whose advice is to stay engaged with the Jewish bookseller's enshrined space on Delancey Place.
I don't know that I can; it feels like a tumor, like a lung cancer at a certain stage. I pray for vengeance on their souls. Figure whose souls for yourselves. I pray with all the malevolence I can muster that she will pay for her callousness that has left me in these circumstances. The hate will live beyond my demise; I believe that.
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