Only Art Means Anything.

There Was A Young Lady Named Mae Who Smoked Without Stopping All Day; As Pack Followed Pack, Her Lungs First Turned Black, And Eventually Rotted Away.

Mr Earbrass Stands On The Terrace At Twilight. It Is Bleak; It Is Cold; And The Virtue Has Gone Out Of Everything. Words Drift Through His Mind: Anguish Turnips Conjunctions Illness Defeat String Parties No Parties Urns Desuetude Disaffection Claws Loss Trebizond Napkins Shame Stones Distance Fever Antipodes Mush Glaciers Incoherence Labels Miasma Amputation Tides Deceit Mourning Elsewards.

Z Is For Zillah Who Drank Too Much Gin.

If I Do Not Seem To Be Mentioning Anything I’ve Read Lately, It Is Because I Am In One Of Those Periods Of Undifferentiated Flux Or Something In Which I Am Reading About Fifty, At A Minimum, Books At Once, So Of Course I Seldom Finish One. Eventually This Phase Will Pass, And I’ll Discover I Have About Ten Pages To Go In All Of Them, And Will Sit Down And Systematically Finish Them, One After Another.

This Is The Theory… That Anything That Is Art… Is Presumably About Some Certain Thing, But Is Really Always About Something Else, And It’s No Good Having One Without The Other, Because If You Just Have The Something It Is Boring And If You Just Have The Something Else It’s Irritating.