The Sun Also Rises is a book about a whipped no dick bitch and a rich whipped limey bitch and a hilarious taxidermy enthusiast and amateur trout, but most of all it is about the Jew who got away. Also, The Sun Also Rises features a Male Lolita. Refer to Adam Green vizaviz Essentially, a Lolita is predator who charms you with her appetite for sweets and her other kitten-like “eccentricities.” She’s looking to let somebody down, and do it in a sexy way. Note: Beware of grown-women who impersonate Lolitas because they are gold-diggers. Sensible enough. The plot hinges on whether or no the Male Lolita (the sole Spaniard not a caricature but rather a Fétiche) fits into his pants. He does but only for a while.

Brett (Her Highness Miss Rope-A-Dope) distracts the main characters from their male bounding. Brett has a fine chin. Brett simply turns all to jelly when touched. Like a flat Jelly Roll Morton sort of character. Chested and pitchy. "I think it's [love] hell ["Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff."] on earth." Brett's face was white. "I say, do I look too much of a mess?" You don't look it.

Aloysius Gonzaga

"I'm too far behind you now to catch up and be any fun."
"Don't be an ass."
Don't let's


 "You talk sort of bitter."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was just trying to give you the facts." 

LOL I laugh at the incredible torments my persecutors constantly give themselves in vain Haterz After having sought ten years for a man in vain, I finally had to extinguish my lantern and cry out: "There are no more! Going for a where have all the cowboys gone kind of thing like Dylan i think I’m gonna do april or so is a cruel month & how you like your blue eyed boy NOW mr octopus? Somebody had to say something

I sought for it and found it: it came from amour-propre which, after having become indignant about men, also rebelled against reason.

Fascinating and original. Essentially from the yoke of opinion signed honeyed malignity.

But certain that they have no other new hold by which they can affect me with a permanent feeling, I laugh at all  their intrigues and enjoy myself in spite of them. catch a body and we laugh about it

Boy, was I thrilled! O Langston Hughes, adorable. I like the sentence "and to take it personally" as a good thing. Then a little thing here and there like "and they would dump it into the ice buckets if they could."

"She had been a swell friend and I liked her." Nothing much but all right with me.

Baldwin writes that he went to Paris because "I wanted to find out in what way the specialness of my experience could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from them.” This sentiment has such humble humanity that the esotericism and exoticism of say Eliot and Pound comes off cowardly. You have to admire Baldwin for rising above his “pride and contempt,” while putting to words the  “bitterly accumulated perception” with patience and something more, honesty rooted in love. His observations are keen and unique: [culture] was something neither desirable nor undesirable in itself, being inevitable, being nothing more or less than the recorded and visible effects on a body of people of the vicissitudes with which they have been forced to deal. And their great men are revealed as simply another of these vicissitudes, even if, quite against their will, the brief battle of their great men with them has left them richer.” He investigates the “color problem” with the savoir faire of one who has long navigated those furious seas. His nuanced perceptions come from a good ear and intellect. His narratives are simultaneously inclusive and selective and have the ingenuity akin to the practices of Drs. Chekhov and Williams.

Interesting that Baldwin refers to the unsentimental French much as Gertrude Stein does but to a disparate argument. “And the fact, perhaps, that the French are the earth's least sentimental people and must also be numbered among the most proud aggravates the plight of their lowest, youngest, and unluckiest members, for it means that the idea of rehabilitation is scarcely real to them.” Compare this to what Stein writes "well that too is intelligent on the part of France and unsentimental, because after all the way everything is remembered is by the writers and painters of the period, nobody really lives who has not been well written about and in realising that the french show their usual sense of reality and a belief in a sense of reality is the twentieth century, people may not have it but they do believe in it."

Take it from Baldwin: White Americans do not understand the depths out of which such an ironic tenacity comes, but they suspect that the force is sensual, and they are terrified of sensuality, and do not any longer understand it. The word “sensual” is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread.

wham bam

Also shout out to the knitted sweater from a mono prix

"There is no structure he can build strong enough to keep out this self-knowledge."

Phoebe had no way of knowing. She told him she would come but she really had no intention. Not that she would not go but she most likely would not. By late August a New Yorker has no promises to keep. Why even make them then. Phoebe had no way of knowing and no intention of finding out. He was not bad but she could do better. It could be fun but by late August fun had nothing to do with it. Phoebe hated parties and even when she went she never really stayed. She could just go and what the hell. Phoebe left that at that. She guessed she would go. Not that that mattered.

There is something infuriating about shadows in New York in the summer. There are many shadows but not really any shade. Walking up West 4 Phoebe felt fantastic. There were strangers she passed them and felt like she knew them and would never give them the time of day. It was high noon and just like a movie but better than any movie Phoebe had ever seen and there were no angles. Phoebe was no stunner but made for the summer.

Phoebe had purchased translations of the Venetian of Veronica Franco on 6 Avenue. These translations had no value whatsoever but the typography seduced her and there were the phrases like Ecco che fuor d’un antro, or ch’io parlo, esce / coppia felice di due dame snelle, cui sempre star in un sol luogo incresce...Another East Coast cosmopolis with its loyalties tied up in trade and womanizing.

Fitz. Fitz writing for the youth of his generation and the critics of ever after.  About nobody have worse or more essays been written.  I hear words I never heard in the bible. What a doll. And not bad to look at but peculiar. Like milk not quite turned. Fitz, very Romantic, like a tic submerged in champaign. His characters behave like children were children utterly charmless and unspontaneous. He had a sellable brand of observant narrow-mindedness. He apologized in a preface for taking 16 years on not Ulysses. Great God, Fitz. Put some clothes on. You look like crouching Aphrodite. Nobody can take you seriously if you insist on winking after every phrase. Like gotcha journalism after an informercial. I value you so little and yet you read well. Floyd Mayweather will beat that karaoke-evangelical parliamentarian into another dimension and neocolonialism will roar. I bet Fitzgerald would too. His dream after all is all of ours. Chlorinated like a public swimming pool.

I read all of Francis' novels from the Beautiful and the Damned on. Tender is the Night is probably his best but why not read Keats and leave it at that.  They are great reads.  Francis Scott Key penned the Star-Spangled Banner but he plagiarized it like Bob Dylan but jingoistic and not much of a pimp. In the good way. Pimps are not what they were. Ever since Don Juan's Reckless Daughter they feel emasculated and eviscerated like a rhyming dictionary hanging too long around Walt Clyde.

Frazier is Liberty now, not the blasted Statue of Surveillance. As for Francis Scott Key

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away;
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him Who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.

Ben Frank shuldve done sumthan bout that

History is a total waste of time.

It happened just as you would imagine. Light like matter and the street like any other but with her crossing. Every aspect marvelous and all at once over.  He had not thought of her in months and assumed nonrecognition. She had not thought of him nor seen him. It happened as you would imagine but with precision. She wore a scarf and with the sun out. It would have tempered with the afternoon but for August. He had nothing to say to her. There were no coincidences.

He could imagine things otherwise. There were always alternatives. These were implausible as they were implacable. He could not place it. If he left the city. What is the matter. Helicoids of particles traverse where the light is. Wait at the light for the out the

Hours passed. Crepuscular August brings relief. It turns a tender shade. Then night and the debaucheries. Not that these are hard hours to waste under the polluted horizon hearing traffic and thinking of later. Not particularly.

What have you been up to? - Nothing really. I want to get out of the city. - Me too. - What you doing tonight? - No plans.

There were the sounds of the waves on the pier and there were the sounds from the Henry Hudson Parkway and there were the sounds of the crowds crossing and these sounds said nothing, some more so.

Phoebe had no way of knowing. She told him she would come but she really had no intention. Not that she would not go but she most likely would not. By late August a New Yorker has no promises to keep. Why even make them then. Phoebe had no way of knowing and no intention of finding out. He was not bad but she could do better. It could be fun but by late August fun had nothing to do with it. Phoebe hated parties and even when she went she never really stayed. She could just go and what the hell. Phoebe left that at that. She guessed she would go. Not that that mattered.

There is something infuriating about shadows in New York in the summer. There are many shadows but not really any shade. Walking up West 4 Phoebe felt fantastic. There were strangers she passed them and felt like she knew them and would never give them the time of day. It was high noon and just like a movie but better than any movie Phoebe had ever seen and there were no angles. Phoebe was no stunner but made for the summer.