Here are more observations plucked from my notebook. This collection, however, has a very specific flavor. One that tastes of bummed cigarettes and day-old croissants, infused with the aroma of burnt coffee and the scent of a really worn and torn copy of The Sun Also Rises. And as such, this post will most likely appeal to (below-) average English majors. My deepest apologies to all other majors. You are excused from reading this post.
– Mark Twain is absolutely amazing – presently. I can’t say if he was any good in the past.
– Thanks to the magic of the Internet, I heard Ginsberg read “Howl.” Hearing him get increasingly agitated reduces the need to refer to the footnotes to understand he’s upset.
– Artemus Ward. His name sounds so familiar. I either read something he wrote or I met him at a party where he offered me a healthy variety of illegal substances. Which was it?
-In my youth, I loved Robert Frost. Now, not so much.
– Envy. Deep, forest-green envy. Engulfs me. When I think of everything Jack Kerouac experienced in his life. Except for death. That part he could keep.
– I wish Langston Hughes would’ve cut down a few words from, “Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” As is, it makes for a really large tattoo and I wanted a something a little more dainty.
– For a short while I became obsessed with Virginia Woolf, but I had to break it off. She was just too high maintenance.