solecism
bookface
I will do the dishes after I finish this page. Or the next. They’re only dirty dishes, after all. If I read eight or even ten more pages, what difference will it make? The dishes will still be there and they’ll still be dirty.
The guy killed himself. Not the guy in the book, the guy who wrote the book. Maybe the guy in the book will kill himself too, I don’t know. But the guy who wrote the book? Hung himself. Before he finished the book. I’m reading an unfinished book by a guy who hung himself. You know what that means? It means to hell with the dishes, is what it means.
I’m not sure I understand what it’s all about. The book. Well, and the suicide. Or the dishes, for that matter. But it’s beautiful. There are sentences—paragraphs, even whole pages—that are so uncompromisingly beautiful that I forget to breathe. Soon I’ll put the book down and go do the dishes, and I’ll be sorry the guy is dead and I’ll be happy I’m alive and I’ll be content that my hands are up to my wrists in warm soapy water.
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