vacuity
I have no idea who reads this thing any more—with the infrequency of postings has come some echo of the general privations that Burke thought were "great, because they are all terrible—Vacuity, Darkness, Solitude and Silence"—[continue to remark on lack of content, in lieu of content]—
Reading Faulkner's biography last night made me feel inadequate because there is an outside possibility that my book is not as good as his, but this has since evaporated, because most of the time I am seriously not fighting Faulkner for immortality, no matter what Harold Bloom says; I want enough money to pay off my debts, with some left over to send to Guatemala so that I won't be reborn as a parasitic jawless fish, and then I will have nothing rather than less than nothing, and I can start over.
