one hundred eighty

Read A Heaven of Others: Being the True Account of a Jewish Boy Jonathan Schwarzstein of Tchernichhovsky Street Jerusalem and his Post-Mortem Adventures in & Reflections on the Muslim Heaven as Said to Me and Said through Me by an Angel of the One True God Revealed to Me at Night as if in a Dream by Joshua Cohen today, which, yeah, is a super long title for a very short book, not even two hundred pages long. It’s fantastic, though. Hard to capture what it’s like, but i want other people to read it, because i–not love, for that’s not the right word–enjoyed it immensely. It’s dreamlike and softly told, ethereal, barely there, but forever present, if you get me. He also does what i love, which is writing long surreal unending sentences that bend, but don’t break. In short, he does what i’ve always been aiming at. And he succeeds.

Taking kind of breaks in reading The Tunnel by William H Gass as it’s a very difficult book to read straight through. I kind of lose steam after twenty pages. It’s dense, ya dig, and i’m about one hundred fifty pages–these pages being quite large makes it more like three hundred or so pages–in and there’s no semblance of plot–which is hardly a bad thing–but there’s no movement either, which is a deterrent. It makes it difficult to keep going. While he crafts these sentences beautifully, so far, it’s just sentences and madness, which can only get you so far. Normally, i would’ve just given up, but i’m finding it easier to read by breaking it up with other people’s words. So, yeah, today read that Cohen novel.

Fill me with smoke and fire
making a pyre on which to choke
all these words i once wrote

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