GhostofKinski
Well-known member
Racist.white stones
Racist.white stones
I’m still waiting for mine. I have a horrible feeling that the total implosion of Unbound/Boundless may mean mine forever remains in a box in a warehouse somewhere like an artefact from Indiana Jones.
I've only Little Dorrit and Curiosity Shop to compare it to, but Dickens definitely seems more experimental and scathing here. I learned my lesson with the last two, so am avoiding Googling any characters or developments in case I run into spoilers again.I think I like it because he allows himself to become a bit more unhinged in it - there are the usual great comic characters but there is a great interest in obsession - sexual, monetary which he develops more fully than in his other work. And the golden dustman is a fabulous character.
Very Trumpian insult, thisDerek "very prosy" walcott
i met jean-michel basquiat at the mudd club... he was just a kid ...couldn't have been more than seventeen...with a funny haircut... he used to grin with absolute delight while he danced... i called him willie mays... it wasn't so much that he looked like willie mays, which he did a little, but how much he enjoyed his silly dancing...in 1949 or 1950, before i was born, my family was living in mineapolis... they had a minor league baseball team, before the twins... a young willie mays came through there on his way to the pros... and my dad used to go see him play... he said they were all heartbroken when willie mays got called up to the majors because he was so wonderful to watch... and part of what was so wonderful was the ease with which he played and the joy that emanated from him... jean-michel’s dancing wasn’t graceful or elegant...in fact it was awful...but he certainly enjoyed it, immensely, in an abandoned way... because of this i dubbed him willie mays, and he called me willie back...jean-michel and danny rosen used to sleep on the floor in my front room... it was called the john lurie school of bohemian living... we would stay awake for days and then crash... they didn’t seem to mind sleeping on the carpet... i had splurged and spent $100 on carpeting for my front room... i don’t remember either of them ever bathing... after being out all night, i would make jean-michel come out and shoot baskets with me at six a.m... in the morning light... he never liked shooting baskets, but i made him come anyway...when jim jarmusch was making his first film, permanent vacation, i let him use my apartment to store the film equipment in the front room... jean-michel was asleep on the floor after being awake for days... he was often in their way and they couldn’t wake him up... jim and two crew guys finally picked him up and moved him to the side of the room to get at the equipment... kind of pissed me off, how they grimaced with disgust when they had to touch him and moved him like he was a stinking homeless person...but, damn, jean-michel slept right through it... i cannot tell you how jealous i am of someone who can sleep like that...jean-michel and i would smoke marijuana and paint and draw all night... i had a box of oil pastels and we would paint on anything...
they are trying to disappear me... good luck with that...
when i was nine, i was on a little league team, shebro builders... they gave us each a uniform, which even at nine i knew was a wool piece of shit... it had “shebro builders” written across the chest and my number on the back... it itched like mad... i would never play... i was nine, and the kids who played were eleven and twelve... i would come home to our place on elm street in worcester, in my itchy unform, and inevitably run into mr pasowitz, the superintendent of the building, who lived on the first floor...mr pasowitz was a large, strapping man... almost handsome in a burt lacaster kind of way, but his face was a bit more swollen... i think he drank a lot... kind of burt lancaster if he had been hit in the face with a board several times... he would see me in my uniform and ask, in his booming voice, “how did you do today?” i would say, “i hit a home run...” though i had not even stepped to the plate...it felt horrible to lie like that... it made me feel creepy inside, but every week when i came home and he saw me, i would say, “i hit a home run...” after a while he seemed bored with this response, so i said, “i hit two home runs...” but he knew i was lying... i knew he knew i was lying... he knew i knew he knew i was lying... it just felt awful... i was nine years old... jim jarmusch is now sixty-seven... his uniform must really itch...sometimes the bullshit rises so high that people don’t seem to see it... like fish don’t see water...i didn’t want to take a left turn here... i wanted to keep the flow of the book... i want this book to be real and honest but not be ugly or negative where it doesn’t have to be... as much as possible to have it filled with love... i really didn’t want to allow someone else’s pathetic bullshit to influence what goes into the book, so i have made it a footnote... a long footnote...a string of things happened, right as i was writing this chapter, that were just really too much, and i felt that i had to address them... felt phony not to...