We walk to the pub and
Order our beers we do not know
Which is which but we drink
To the future, or to the past
Anyway. When the man
At the table next to us says
Something to us about Proust
I turn to him and say So
You have read Proust then?
He says Yes but I am unconvinced
I say I will [...]
Clocks slip across
The edges of days
Like scalpels—but
All I remember are
Moments in tatters from
Pages ripped ragged.
The mute yellows of
A single cigarette and
A leaf too late for autumn.
Faces tracing footpaths and
The dying winter sun.
God has no scalpel just
Dirty hands and more
Pages to tear than even He
Can remember.
“I have to start… a novel. So I can get one published by age 16 and get my stuff out there.” (Adam Meinerding, 13 years old, on his weblog)
Heller, Mark. 2003. “The Immorality of Modal Realism, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let the Children Drown”, in Philosophical Studies, Vol 114, Iss. 1-2, pp. 1-22, May 2003.(Which argues, by the way, that belief in the actuality of all possible worlds implies that we shouldn’t bother saving drowning children in some situations, because they’ll live [...]
The number of times I have read love poems or sex scenes in novels that say something about the snap of bra-straps: uncountable. I am going to start a list, though. Might make a good coffee-table book one day for shy literary types who are too afraid to have books of nudes around the house.
[...]“Pieces of music that do the same things over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, until in [...]