I’m as happy as a pretentious little word muffin can be – awaiting me in my work mailbox was the first issue of my subscription to The New York Review of Books. Now I’ll never miss one bit of Freddy Crews’ dismantling of the Freudian orthodoxy.
I could lie and say that I’m just getting it for the David Levine drawings, but that would be well, lying. Fact is I am what you would have to call a faggoty intellectual, and no amount of mucked up ocher twill is going to change that. And sadly, I’m one of those intellectuals who reads more book reviews than he ever reads books.
Speaking of books, I’m two thirds of the way through James Schuyler’s diary, and a sad tome it is. Day after day of beautiful descriptions of Northeastern countryside are pushed aside by anxiety, failing health and a dwindling circle of friends. I’m surprised by it. In one lump-inducing entry he writes about wishing that just once he would receive an honor before it had already been given to his good friend John Ashberry. It’s the small dissapointments that can often bleed the most.
I seem to be going on a bit of a New York School poetry kick these days. weird because it’s a subject I never really gave much thought to before.