Dissolves in my mouth,
The landscape dwindles and whispers like rice through my dry fingers.
Now twilight. Now the bereft bodies
Of those who have never risen from the dead glide down… 25 more words
As I may have mentioned once or twice, I keep this blog as a record of what I read. If I don’t blog it’s probably because I haven’t been reading, but occasionally there are novels that really challenge my ability to say something interesting. 624 more words
In a literary period that witnessed the exhaustion of literature, wholesale formal experimentation, a general distrust of language, the death of the novel, and the blurring of the lines separating fiction and play, mainstream art and the avantgarde, John Cheever (May 27, 1912 – June 18, 1982) consistently and eloquently held to the position that the writing of fiction is an intimate, useful, and indeed necessary way of making sense of human life and affirming its worth. 5,780 more words
‘They went on. Treading the dead world under like rats on a wheel. The nights dead still and deader black.’
Apropos of nothing, when someone next asks you how you possibly have time to read, you might want to know that you can finish this book in 2 hours and 50 minutes. 3,908 more words