Take a deep breath.. look around… all is still .. o r i s i t ?

Does the straight and placid countenance hide the tempest below or make it seem as though the melancholy ain’t that bad.?.?/..

The ineluctable and irrefutable evidence is that we are all driven towards an inexorable end despite what our schemes to the contrary may be. Divining and conjuring one’s literary friends might make the journey easier, the descent into darkness and madness that much less traumatic.

How did I drop Phoebe’s record? The fragility of the goddam thing was not yet supposed to reveal itself. For Chrissake does it not matter to all you phonies that she was supposed to receive that gift intact? Who penned the words that forgave me anyway?

“Boy, when you’re dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you’re dead? Nobody.”

When does coherence end and when do we fall apart. Who says how and when we do. Does understanding a character give you a sense of his madness and when does an attempt at free form writing become total shite. Why the reference to the damn laconic, doleful and lugubrious Dane .. why is it worth the effort. Is melancholy a virtue now.. does it forgive his descent into dark , dank hole that he is falling into?

Was he right? Was the rot and putrefaction so deep and something not worthy of our caring? Maybe Yoric knows.as well as I knew him..then again, maybe he doesn’t

Murder your darlings..

Was Fitzgerald’s advice sage?

Are these the words and sentiments that crowded the manic, nonstop minds of Hinkley and Heath Ledger for his crowning performance? Were they granted the same absolution.. were they allowed to walk through a museum and find purpose and conviction from the guiding hand of a young girl?

Edmond Dante had it easy. Nabokov’s ghost even easier. And forget about the goddamn phony Hamlet. Mine and his progenitor. Who among is able to see through the phoniness… and possibly join me in my cabin in the woods. Will generations finally understand that my tale was not one of a whiny goddam youth but of a troubled boy , a boy who descends into the depths of his own psyche who is tormented by a sense of loss of everything around him and by an eternal loneliness whose life is the product of one big fathomable sack of lies and who is deigned to ply his craft in the ludic of a god who wasn’t there…the narrative of which is one jumbled run on sentence and which will never see the light of day . Could it be that they really understand the madness of King George and his goddam porphyria or that of Jack Torrance, who cares anyway and is it worth my time to worry

“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded.”

Philip Carey.. that bastard

Dank and empty…but tease me with hope and work me to the bone with little regard for the end that drives my purpose. Hope lies at the end of the road..shrouded in disambiguity and perpetual subterfuge. The Ponderous Counterspectacle of it all… I think the nuns are grateful after all

PS. I’m not going crazy :).. that is my first impression after reading what I hope you recognize as a great novel after many years. Random, quick words from my fingers. Not disguised by preconception, foresight or thought. Just musings on their own.