You want more of their shit, and when you’re finished, you realize the joke is on you, and you get an unmistakable feeling that those wicked authors are laughing at you somewhere, and you cannot but love them for making that joke, and admire their wickedness as well.
Drunk with the ideas they put on the pages make you want to pillage bookstores and spend your last penny on their books, only if you really want it. I don't really want it.
That’s why if my sister reads this (only she doesn't read anything I write), the post explains why I drunkenly threatened her one time (actually a lot of times) to buy me Haruki Murakami books. I read Murakami's two colossal books (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Kafka On The Shore) this way, and those of Gabriel as well. Both authors are simply magisterial in their own magical way. And as you know, dear reader, I dig everything magisterially magical.
Other books I've read since January:
The Paladin of the Lost Hour (novelette) by Harlan Ellison
Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins
Dubliners by James Joyce
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
Galloway by Louis L’Amour
Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
The Sky-Liners by Louis L’Amour
Woody Allen: A Biography by Eric Lax
Books I’m reading right now:
The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr., and E. B. White (First time that I really enjoy reading a book that has something to do with grammar rules. As you know, I hate it since Elementary. Maybe that’s something to do with that cranky old teacher we had in Elementary.)
The Art of the Deal by Donald Trump (Need to read this for my day job.)
Books on my queue (actually, it’s frighteningly long, but here are just five of them):
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco, Neuromancer by William Gibson, Fifty Years of American Poetry, A Passage to India by E. M. Forster, and Now & Then by Joseph Heller
Sleep well tonight, my internet darlings.
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