Friday, March 26, 2004

*Internet ate this post. This is the second attempt. Thank god it is short.

Once again someone has written my thoughts decades earlier and more purely.

"You mean to say that you can LOVE a piece of buttered toast?
only some, sir. on certain mornings. in certain rays of sunlight.
love arrives and departs without notice." -Charles Bukowski

God bless his drunk, boil-covered misogynistic dead head.

P.S. I am out of books. I need a new one. Any suggestions?


  1. I must stop reading this and do some work. It's fun to read the posts in the wrong order by the way, like a jigsaw...
    I recommend Iris Murdoch and Evelyn Waugh, and - but you have to be in the mood - P.G. Wodehouse.
    I am aware that liking EW is no longer socially acceptable but I don't care.
    Thanks for the lovely blog, it's much better than work.

  2. I just recently discovered the joys of P.G. Wodehouse. I know of Murdoch but will look into Waugh. Social unacceptability, say no more, I'm going to the library now.