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"That sword, the mace, the crown imperial shall sleep so soundly as the wretched slave."
Remains Of The Day
06 Apr 2002
The best thing I've heard all day was a recording of William
S. Burroughs reading from a letter he had written to Allen
Ginsberg. Burroughs drawls slowly, but he does not dawdle. He
talks about travel, I think, in words that are innocent, but from
him sound sinister.
I pick a collection of essays by Paul Bowles off a living room
bookshelf with the idea of taking it upstairs to read, but I open
it while walking, and don't make it past the stairs, preferring
instead to plunge into A Man Must Not Be Very Moslem in
which he describes Turkish orthography and a man who can
"squeeze the last drop of adventure out of any
occasion." A half hour later, I came up for air, not
realizing that I had not been breathing, and wondered: How long.
Seconds? Minutes? If I had not noticed, would I still be there on
the stairs, reading, unasphyxiated?