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

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

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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?