theery of the novvul
Thanks to the Berkeley English department for buying everyone lots of beer. Lubricated by beer, I found a cowboy hat sitting on a lamp (someone had found it months earlier by a roadside) and wore the cowboy hat the entire night, and the hat facilitated meetings with the other prospectives and current grad students, all of whom seemed terrifyingly smart. If I go (meaning, if I can get the money together) I am likely to get my ass kicked. But in an edifying way. Also got to meet John Bishop, who wrote the book on Finnegans Wake and has been holding a Wake reading group lately, who when I went to visit him had the score for Pierrot Lunaire spread over his desk—he's comparing it to "Sirens" as an example of the spoken word becoming a musical instrument. Last year he taught a grad course on experimental fiction whose syllabus included Gravity's Rainbow and Infinite Jest.
Lacan, Lacan, your pants are gone!
