Faith in books, restored

During the eight years Pnin had taught at Waindell College he had changed his lodgings... about every semester. The accumulation of consecutive rooms in his memory now resembled those displays of grouped elbow chairs on show, and beds, and lamps, and inglenooks which, ignoring all space-time distinctions, commingle in the soft light of a furniture store beyond which it snows, and the dusk deepens, and nobody really loves anybody.

From Pnin, by Vladimir Nabokov

Fail better

Shall we just call 2006 a write-off, then?

Other Things

So here are some more words that I have arranged into more or less meaningful patterns: a short screenplay very loosely based on Julio Cortazar's short story House Taken Over; some more bloody poems, most of which are not worth the bandwidth it would take you to download them; and an anthology of student writing I helped to put together.

That's that, then.

A Story What I Wrote

I managed to get my shit together to enter The Age's short story competition for once in my life. Turns out I can't upload it due to computer things, so you'll have to wait till I win and you read it in the paper.</ego>

Computer things are now my bitch, so here it is.

Thaumasmus

I marvel that there is such a word.

Comix hour

Verbing weirds language.
Solipsists, I'm on to you.

some poetry

For firstly, help the folks at Darwinian Poetry breed a poem that is as tough as the creatures from Aliens via natural selection.

For secondly, a poem you should read: Frame, an Epistle by Claudia Emerson.

Five thou.

...

I thought that you brought up some pertinent points about the film Mike. I think its more a fault in the task itself than your response to it.

And I also had time to read the story, and I think that it has much potential. And as opposed to your learned classmates, the ambiguity intrigues me rather than cloying and annoying.

I'll try and read the others soon.

quiet

This blog is a quiet blog, and while I understand that silence is the perfect state of being I also think that in this postlapsarian world we probably need to say some shit.

So in the interests of saying shit I present some collections of words I have put together for uni. None of them are very good, and most are not even interesting, but for want of better I present them here:

An essay that takes a bitterly reductive approach and fails to do justice to a good film;

Some dreadful poems written for a dreadful class;

Some more poems (some of which are less terrible) written for a better class;

Some bile I was required to hawk up on the subject of "metafiction;"

And the current state of play in my battle with a story I am doing shoddy work of writing.

Scathing criticism will be appreciated most.

P.S. It still shocks me how angry I become when confronted with people without taste (not with bad taste - them I can talk to, at least.) So much hate.

Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman is 90 stories tall, and his adventures are legendary.