part one
i went out with, and later became friends with, a guy who has pretty low standards. he requires two things of a woman, and both must be significant in size: breasts and a brain for books. she can be anything else -- boring, cruel, selfish -- as long as she can smother him with her motherly tits, perhaps while discussing henry miller.
i have no interest in being described as "well-read." i would, however, like to be considered a "thinker."
this, as a compliment, is new to me. it's impossible to define, and so is completely subjective. intelligence is in the eye of the beholder, i guess. even if it isn't widely recognized, it is certainly something to own. most people can read, but the ideas that spring from written words are specific to each being. how i feel about a book, what i think, and what i say about it is just mine. and for anyone to see, appreciate, and even name that process is just ... a miracle.
part two
my brain is (still) having a torrid affair with portraits of a marriage:
what should i read next?
hiroshima by john hersey might be a good choice. it's relevant and i know i love it.
i fell in love with walter moer's world of zamonia a couple of years ago when i read rumo. i recently bought the next in the series, the city of dreaming books.
or, i could satisfy my desire for otherness with the king's rifle by biyi bandele.
it doesn't matter which i choose; it will be read silently, alone. for this, i sigh.
i went out with, and later became friends with, a guy who has pretty low standards. he requires two things of a woman, and both must be significant in size: breasts and a brain for books. she can be anything else -- boring, cruel, selfish -- as long as she can smother him with her motherly tits, perhaps while discussing henry miller.
i have no interest in being described as "well-read." i would, however, like to be considered a "thinker."
this, as a compliment, is new to me. it's impossible to define, and so is completely subjective. intelligence is in the eye of the beholder, i guess. even if it isn't widely recognized, it is certainly something to own. most people can read, but the ideas that spring from written words are specific to each being. how i feel about a book, what i think, and what i say about it is just mine. and for anyone to see, appreciate, and even name that process is just ... a miracle.
part two
my brain is (still) having a torrid affair with portraits of a marriage:
"there was nothing flirtatious about her, neither her eyes nor her posture. there was no invitation ... no, she was a woman willing to look a man in the eye because she thinks she might have something in common with him."
what should i read next?
hiroshima by john hersey might be a good choice. it's relevant and i know i love it.
"many, although injured themselves, supported relatives who were worse off. almost all had their heads bowed, looked straight ahead, were silent, and showed no expression whatsoever."
i fell in love with walter moer's world of zamonia a couple of years ago when i read rumo. i recently bought the next in the series, the city of dreaming books.
"i attended timber-time readings, seated beneath the cellar steps like an old ghost, and listened to lousy poems being recited by tipsy jobbing poets as if they were the music of the spheres."
or, i could satisfy my desire for otherness with the king's rifle by biyi bandele.
"wearily, damisa leant against a tree. he was only twenty-six; in banana's eyes he'd always behaved like a man of twice his age. but now as he rested his head against the teak tree, he looked like a little boy lost."
it doesn't matter which i choose; it will be read silently, alone. for this, i sigh.
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