I've been reading a book. I know, I know, these are the [whatever the hell you call this decade] not the sixties. Sit down, login and upload. Books are so... I don't know... analog.
Nevertheless, I've been reading a book. It's a frustrating experience for a postpostmodern/preneopostmodern man like me to read an actual paper book. I find myself wanting to stop after every three or four paragraphs and tell the author what I did last weekend. I would try to tie it in with something he said in his post... I mean paragraphs... but I might just cut loose and start riffing on one word he used or something. Plus I keep wanting to say "Hello" to him. But I can't do any of these things, because a book provides no way to communicate with the author (with the possible exception of the Necronomicon).
Every time I enjoy a book it makes me think about writing a book. I wonder why? When I enjoy a car or a movie or a vagina, I don't start wanting to make one of my own. When I enjoy a book, though, it always wakes in me a strong desire to write a book. I guess it's because I could actually imagine myself writing a book (but not really) but I couldn't imagine how one would make a car. (You thought I was going to say "vagina" again, didn't you. You're sick.)
I'm reading The Last Gentleman by Walker Percy. I'm enjoying it a lot, although the guy's extremely specific notions of The North and The South don't resonate with me. His descriptions of human nature, on the other hand, remind me of thoughts I'm going to have one day. I'd hate to meet him in person, because he's dead and that would scare the hell out of me. Were he still alive, though, I'd love to have coffee with the guy or leave a comment on his blog.
Hello, friends. What are you reading (you know, besides this)?
Later. Love.
