In this issue

That sword, the mace, the crown shall sleep so soundly as the wretched slave.


The Front Page is published monthly from Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

You can contact us by electric mail at The Front Page. All messages received become property of The Front Page. The Editors reserve the right to edit your correspondance for length.

This publication complies with Article 2 of the Publications Act (1975) administered by the Canadian Commission of Government.

"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?