A fiction writing teacher told me  I should read it. A friend told me I’d begin to understand it if I got past the first few pages. This has to be the twentieth time I’ve started it. I’m actually reading the motherfucker now.

Is it age? Do you have to exhaust the more interesting possibilities in your life before you can habituate yourself to the sentence that curdles the anxious spirit like Xenophon’s ten thousand awaiting their turn to hump a cow; an echo of the delicate tinkling in a pan which might stand in the mind of ruddy men as a facsimile for the stray decades between the apex of sexual  faculty and the grey tomb? Well this is not what Coozledad assayed when he took the chunky volume up and gave himself  up to it,  a myopic virgin to a tree.

God help me. Gonna finish . This time.

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