« Sunset | Main | Brutus »



May I be the first to ask what book has driven you from the sea to a mall of sullen teenaged clerks? Or is this too self-revelatory?

R J Keefe

What mystifications! I Googled the quote, got nothing. Amazon isn't selling any fiction at 607 pages.

There was a time in my life when urgencies such as the one so well captured here were not uncommon. This was followed by a period of doubting that I would survive the period between seeing a movie in a theatre and obtaining the DVD. Now I don't go to the movies at all. Age has its upside.

tiny Coconut

Tell. Spill. Now. At least the name of the author. I need to know if we're mesmerized by the same books, or if you have a secret I need in on.


Murakami, "South of the Border, West of the Sun". Frankly, the love affair you've been having with Murakami mystefies me -- last stummer, I was stuck on a plane with "Norwegian Wood" as my only book, and it made a long flight even longer. What is it you like about him?


Sorry if I was harsh the other day, but this is such good writing that I want the direction to be the one you really want.

The question is whether you are writing about writing or really writing? In the poetry world, poems on poetry usually end up tedious. Is this writing about writing and never really writing? Part of the subject in this one is interesting, but then what?


Mrs. Peperium

What was that about Charles Lamb living with the shadow of madness?


I understand that addiction.

I think if I had written a post, given the same circumstances, it would have been a rant about the low state that our society has fallen into when a town of 25,000 people doesn't have a bookstore.


Here’s where you should be vacationing instead:


1,300 residents and 39 bookshops!

The comments to this entry are closed.