And but so then from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by Tyrone Slothrop, who sez —You buy Furniture. You tell Yourself, this is the last Sofa I will ever need in my Life. Buy the Sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter What-Goes-Wrong, at least you've got your Sofa "issue" "handled". Then the right set of Dishes. Then the Perfect Bed. The Drapes. The Rug. Then you're trapped in "your" lovely Nest, and the things you used to own (the fatta the lan'), now they own You.
While I was scarfing down my fries I heard a bang on the table and some shrieks. I looked behind my and saw an enormous woman clutching her throat. The burger she was eating was all over her shirt and a trail of saliva was etching from her mouth.
"Help!" some women next to her screamed. "Oh fuck". She tried to get behind her in the booth but she was too fat. The teenagers at the cash registers just stood there and watched. The fat woman's face was getting redder and she waved her hands around. A man ran up and started punching her stomach. "Come the fuck on!" he yelled.
Then it just happened, the woman fell over on the booth. I kept eating.
I believe in the philosophy of autism. Like, "If you want to be miserable for the rest of your life, don't make a Stacy your wife.". I mean, who can refute that? Can /lit/ refute that? Why would you refute that? I mean, really. Any frog knows this is true, even a superficial, shallow frog like me. Of course, I think almost all women are whores.
Gentlemen - must I begin my account from the beginning? If I must - there is time enough, yes indeed, time enough! - but let me not get ahead of myself...I am getting ahead of myself...there is time enough! Let me recount from the first that dark, fateful day, when that single-thoughted passion first descended into my soul...a woman! It was a woman. This woman was the daughter of a widower, an old colonel, a grumpy old dodger who kept her under lock and key....I had come into her acquaintance by mistake, as it were; or was it fate? Fate! The vagaries of fate, how strange the changing winds of circumstance! But I am digressing, forgive me, please, I am digressing. It is only that, beginning to recount my story, I can see again in my soul's eye how the light in the drawing room, alighting upon her face, so pure, so frank - such candid kindness was in it, such tenderness, to forgive a wretch like me - to forgive!
Her name was Anna Sicydiraogolovoapvploolovich - oh, Ana! If you only knew - she was proud, had high, broad shoulders, like alpine crests, the richest white skin, and a manner of complete candor....but no, it hits home to me now that I do not love her, but love rather the idea of her, the more which, growing attached to the idea, I love it yet the more fervently, despite being fully aware of its falsehood! I love falsehood - there, I said it! With that you have the whole foppish portrait of my being, that I am a false creature who craves contrivance. I met her only once - the whole of our history lasts no longer than five minutes - and I have not seen her since in the fifteen years that separate the present time from the hour of my tale...but each day, the details of that meeting magnify - the tinkle of her laughter sounds like a chime in the breeze, lifted on winds from an ageless past, as if there were no other sound in the world, all preserved in jealous memory! Tell me, gentlemen - is it possible to love without knowledge? Is not this ideal more true? For it cannot fester with age, though my soul grows rank with vicious odors....l
Might I relate to you a thing that happened to me this very day. Twas but six hours past that most haughty and light one of noon when I summoned to my convenience a man of great and luxurious conveyance. We embarked upon a trifling journey and he told unto me thusly "yeah dude I work for a lighting company man. I'm an engineer I characterise systems. LEDs mainly we got big into the organics and grow business. Lots of weed and indoor stuff.". I was intrigued by the man and his mode of speech quite singular in my experience as it was. He continued "yeah we got a contract at the moment for place in Canada 30 mill for growing cucumbers". It was at this time the misdirection of our travel became first apparent for the sun was now striking its last tattered rays against the trees in front of us. Even as such the sun was setting a thought dawned to me. Some agent of much potency had clearly been used upon my fellow for his mind could not be so unsettled otherwise.
>>7639000 holy fuck, look how hard they cracked the spin of that book so it would stay perfectly open to where they wanted it for the pic without her actually having to hold it open or worry about the pages flipping
>>7639000 The bottle sat the table posed on its surface like some unknown reality populated by hard men. Surrounded by cups and forks and clocks and speakers and monitors and a computer tower humming out its meager existence like a vagabond running from death himself.
Drink that, man. Drink it like every second leading to this was dependence on this one choice. Said the man.
The boy drank, the bottle perpendicular, like some map drawn for the end of man and the destruction of his entire known world. In his face welled the curious look, the look known only to the hang man, only to the soldier seeing his lesser across the tench.
Aye man, aye. Drink deep and drink hardy. For this is the last drink you'll ever drink. As every drink is the first drink you ever drink. Every second our correlated knowing congealed into this petty hatred we all conscience. Drink, man. Think night will end, but you will not.
The young man came out of the cottage in which he rented on the bone-chillingly morning and walked calmly, as if knowing every inch of the ground, towards the forest. He had failed to elude the mocking birds at the entrance of the forest trail. His cottage was between the tall, thick pines, and was more like a modern house than a cottage. The mockingbirds, who gave him song, company, and headaches, made their nests in the pines above, and every time he went on walks he was forced to hear their mimicry, the mimicry was inevitable. And every time he heard them, the young man felt only hateful, angry feelings, which made him roll his eyes and feel stressed. He was painfully contemptuous towards the mocking birds, and was weary of hearing them. This was not because he was abrasive and quick-tempered, quite the opposite; but since his purchase of the cottage, he had been in a contemptuous, tired condition, verging on misanthropy. He had become so wrathful, and isolated from civilization that he feared convocation, not only with the mockingbirds, but with even his family. He was so overwhelmed by isolation, but the worries of his work had been abandoned by him. He had quit his work as a writer; he had no drive to write anymore. The mockingbirds had no real torture to subject him to, but to helplessly listen to their repetitive, ugly mimicry, to harsh mating calls to others, fighting and flying, to do-no, rather than listen, he would twist his feet around like a solider and walk back inside.
He gave her a look that said ' I love you and I want to marry you but first I've got to take care of this thing that's been bothering me, so please just wait a little more'. She understood what he wanted to say and began to cry. He sighed and went away, having reached that time of life when men like him have to take a decision. 'Yes, I have always been like this, he thought. Do I love her? Yes, I think I love her. But what about this thing that's been bothering me? He yelled at the driver of his carriage to go faster. I should go and visit somebody.'
I came out of the hotel room at dawn, completely alert although not completely sane.
"Jesus!" I cried, at the servant pushing a trolley of used plates and silverware, "What are you still doing here?"
His only response was a pair of tired eyes and a phony expression that I assume was intended to be surprise. Oh well, he's done for now.
I wandered downstairs to the hotel lobby, and then to the bar, and eventually found the restaurant. Several tables are occupied by geriatric couples, and it is several moments after I sit down and look over the menu that I remember I am in Florida.
"Jesus!" I shout again, this time at the waitress who cautiously approached me to take my order but stopped about two yards away. "What day is it?" I ask, at a volume altogether too loud for a sleepy hotel restaurant at 6:30am in Florida. I realize I'm too loud and proceed in a more conversational tone.
"What day is it ma'am?" I ask again.
She ignores my question and answers with one of her own, "What'll you have sir?" she drawls, lazily.
Suddenly I remember why I came to the hotel restaurant; I /am/ hungry. I decide on two grapefruits, halved; 4 fried eggs; 4 slices of bacon, crispy; a turkey club sandwich, with extra tomatoes; a glass of orange juice; a glass of milk; two espressos; a bloody mary; a margarita; copies of the wall street journal, new york times, san francisco chronicle, and the local paper; and if she, the waitress, would please tune the television to ESPN. She rolls her eyes and walks away without speaking.
A few minutes later she brings my papers, but doesn't change the TV station. I look down to open up my first paper to find out how quickly my country is going to hell, and notice my appearance. I understand why the waitress stayed back. Aside from my hat and sunglasses, I'm wearing a torn hawaiian shirt with meat juice stains all over the chest, like i lost a fight against a steak dinner, and for pants a pair of jogging shorts with a gun belt hung over top, only instead of a pistol holster there is a sheath holding a large polished hunting knife. The pistol is in my briefcase.
This girl, the one presumably engaged in such an act as you are presently, to wit, reading, sits on a short fence stretching lengthwise, and although her eyes glance left to right and up and down, the mind behind them are occupied by the somewhat deeper concern of existing, which concern admittedly is the reasons she is reading in the first place.
The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. Vámonos, amigos, he whispered, and threw the busted leather flint raw over the loose weave of the saddlecock and they rode on in the friscalating dusklight.
El día de ayer, yo, el autor, llamé a mi buen amigo Octavio Paz. Hablamos de literatura en un bar. El mesero nos oyó hablar de James Joyce y una teoría sobre la reductibilidad del pensamiento y como al igual que el tiempo, el lenguaje puede ser infinitesimalmente deconstruído. El mesero mencionó que en realidad Joyce escribió un libro inédito sobre Joyce escribiendo un libro sobre Joyce escribiendo ese mismo libro sobre Joyce escribiendo el libro original. El libro tiene infinitas capaz pero en cada capa hay un flujo de consciencia distinto, de manera que Joyce escribió un libro infinito sobre Joyce escribiendo un libro infinito.
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