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Mark Gleeson

Yes Virginia, there is a Jesus Christ! - 6 views

  •  
    An Easter message for believers and non believers!
Aelius Rusticus

Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 61, Stanley Elkin - 0 views

  • It’s a rare joke that is funny. Only situations are funny.
    • Aelius Rusticus
       
      I asked my cat why he didn't help me with the elaborate vegetable soup I was preparing. When he had no quick answer, I suggested it was because he had no stock in it. My wit, pedestrian in the grand scheme, nonetheless amused me in the moment. Funny situation or funny word-play? or neither?
  • “The point of life was the possibility it always held out for the exceptional.”
  • to do the kinds of things which people don’t really do in real life but which they do do in fiction—to follow their own irrational—but sane—obsessions which, achieved, would satisfy them. Alas, these guys never catch up with their obsessions.
  • ...17 more annotations...
  • There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think, “Jesus Christ, how many more months do I have left?” or years, I hope. I am totally preoccupied with death. I mean my own death. Barth, for example, has said that he comes from very good stock and expects to live a long time. Bill Gass thinks that one of the reasons he takes so much time writing his novels—it took him ten years to write Omensetter’s Luck—is that he has an infinite amount of time left to him. I don’t believe that I have an infinite amount of time left to me. Probably I would be a healthier man if I did believe it.
  • making a scratch on a stone?
  • it’s not a question of making imaginary leaps or having a third eye. It’s a question of using the two eyes I have—and looking hard and close at things.
  • That kind of observation can be taught. I also try to teach them how to recognize a situation, what legitimately is a situation and what isn’t. Those are the only things that can be taught. I can’t teach a person style. I can’t teach him to write, in terms of language. But I can teach them that things look like other things.
  • Criers and Kibitzers, Kibitzers and Criers, a collection of short stories (1966)
  • junk jewelry’s meteorological condition—its Fall line and Spring.
  • I don’t believe that less is more. I believe that more is more. I believe that less is less, fat fat, thin thin and enough is enough.
  • particular existential writers?
  • the SELF takes precedence.
  • Camus
  • in the better restaurants.
  • Barth is wonderful, but the Barth I really admire is back there in the Golden Age of Barth.
  • Bellow I think is a magnificent writer—probably, with Gass, the best writer in America.
  • I think Gass is the best word-man in America.
  • There’s marvelous language in Pricksongs and Descants but it’s subsidiary to the experiment with structure. I tell you this for your own good, Bob. The reason I like Gass so much is that Gass is not fucking around with structure. He is fucking around with language. That to me is legitimate and acceptable, and the furthest out you can go is the best place to be. That’s what’s so magnificent about Shakespeare. Shakespeare wrote very conventional plays, but the language wasn’t conventional.
  • the great gift of fiction—is that it gives language an opportunity to happen.
  • palimpsest of metaphor right there on the page. One gets a notion of the conceit and one is inspired to work with it as a draftsman might work with some angle that he is interested in getting down correctly.
jmcminn0208

There's No Place Like Home - 22 views

    • jmcminn0208
       
      This is literally two sentences. I found it very difficult to read through the first one... as it was itself one whole paragraph
  • And it is distressing to come home and not know where I am
  • Superimposed over that geography, like a Jackson Pollock painted on a fishnet, is the geography of a man’s life, the griefs and pleasures of various streets,
  • ...10 more annotations...
  • We attended church at the Grace & Truth Gospel Hall on 14th Avenue South, where a preacher clutched his suspenders and spoke glowingly of Eternity, and I grew up one of the Brethren, the Chosen to whom God had vouchsafed the Knowledge of All Things that was denied to the great and mighty. The Second Coming was imminent, we would rise to the sky. We walked around Minneapolis carefully, wary of television, dance music, tobacco, baubles, bangles, flashy cars, liquor, the theater, the modern novel—all of them tempting us away from the singular life that Jesus commanded us to lead.
    • jmcminn0208
       
      What did he get from this? How has he lived his life based on this childhood staple?
  • There were the neon lights of Hennepin Avenue and the promise of naked girls at the Alvin Theater, which our family passed on Sunday morning on our way to church, but that was lost on me, a geek with glasses, pressed pants, plaid shirt, a boy for whom dating girls was like exploring the Amazon—interesting idea, but how to get there? Writing for print, on the other hand—why not? And then came the beautiful connection: You write for print, it impresses girls, they might want to go on dates with you.
  • For days after Frankie drowned, I visited the death scene, trying to imagine what had happened. He was paddling a boat near the shore, and it capsized, and he drowned. I imagined this over and over, imagined myself saving him, imagined the vast gratitude of his family. I don’t recall discussing this with other boys. We were more interested in what lay ahead in seventh grade, where (we had heard) you had to take showers after gym. Naked. With no clothes on. Which turned out to be true. Junior high was up the West River Road in Anoka, the town where I was born, 1942, in a house on Ferry Street, delivered by Dr. Mork. That fall of seventh grade, he listened to my heart and heard a click in the mitral valve, which meant I couldn’t play football, so I walked into the Anoka Herald and asked for a job covering football and basketball, and a man named Warren Feist said yes and made me a professional writer. Ask and ye shall receive.
  • down to work at 4 a.m. to do the morning shift on KSJN in a basement studio on Wabasha and then a storefront on Sixth Street, the house where I lived next to Luther Seminary and the backyard parties with musicians that inspired A Prairie Home Companion at Macalester College, the dramatic leap to home ownership on Cathedral Hill in St. Paul, where I’ve lived most of the last 20 years, where you drive up from I-94 past Masqueray’s magnificent cathedral, whose great dome and towers and arches give you a momentary illusion of Europe, and up Summit and the mansions of 19th-century grandees and pooh-bahs in a ward that votes about 85 percent Democratic today.
  • Pride goeth before a fall, so deprecate yourself before others do the job for you
  • I drive down Seventh Street to a Twins game and pass the old Dayton’s department store (Macy’s now but still Dayton’s to me), where in my poverty days I shoplifted an unabridged dictionary the size of a suitcase, and 50 years later I still feel the terror of walking out the door with it under my jacket, and I imagine the cops arresting my 20-year-old self and what 30 days in the slammer might’ve done for me
  • She was a suicide 28 years ago, drowned with rocks in her pockets, and I still love her and am not over her death, nor do I expect ever to be.
  • “There’s no point in a bunch of rubberneckers standing around gawking.”
  • That’ll be the day, when you say goodbye / oh, that’ll be the day, when you make me cry,”
  • She says, “Tell me a funny story”—my daughter who never had to fight for a seat. I say, “So ... there were these two penguins standing on an ice floe,” and she says, “Tell the truth,” so I say, “I like your ponytail. You know, years ago I wore my hair in a ponytail. Not a big ponytail. A little one. I had a beard too.” And she looks at me. “A ponytail? Are you joking?
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