The Thief's Journal, Jean Genet.

"At least," I said to myself, "if my shame is real, it hides a sharper, more dangerous element, a kind of sting that will always threaten anyone who provokes it. It might not have been laid over me like a trap, might not have been intentional, but since it is what it is, I want it to conceal me so that I can lie in wait beneath it."

Why I am taking African American Literature.

I was first exposed to a lengthy piece of African American writing in my eleventh grade honors English course. My teacher, Olivia Macaluso, gave all of her honors English classes a long list of authors about halfway through the school year, from which they would choose one and select a novel on which they were expected to write an extended paper weaving literary criticism with their own writing on a topic of their choice by the end of the school year. I was a little late to the game, so by the time I asked Mrs. Macaluso for recommendations on whom she supposed I would enjoy, Ralph Ellison was already taken. She then offered a few others, of which Ishmael Reed was the only one that I had a mild interest in. She warned me about students from previous years having trouble with his work, but I would not back down. I traveled about a half hour away until I finally found a bookstore that had a copy of Mumbo Jumbo available for my taking. Reed's surreal, hyper-attentive style appealed to me, and made me want to do research to understand some of the allusions he was making that I was unfamiliar with.

On October 3rd, the day I was born, of 1998, I received Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man as a present from my mother. Mind you, she did not read my mind, or anything of the sort, she just got what I had asked for a while back. I put off reading it, because I had also received two or three novels and had a difficult course load for my honors English class that year, until the summer after I graduated. That summer I took an Introduction to Cinema course at Hunter, and since I live in New Jersey I commuted four days a week, taking the bus and then the train. I remember, quite vividly, being so absorbed within the world that Ellison had constructed that I frequently forgot I was even on a train at all. I did not want it to end, and after I had finished it I thought... I wish I could be someone's boo'ful. But then I discovered, I probably was, and I just didn't know it yet.

Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov.

Of students' papers: "I am generally very benevolent [said Shade]. But there are certain trifles I do not forgive." Kinbote: "For instance?" "Not having read the required book. Having read it like an idiot. Looking in it for symbols; example: 'The author uses the striking image green leaves because green is the symbol of happiness and frustration.' I am also in the habit of lowering a student's mark catastrophically if he uses 'simple' and 'sincere.' This is widespread, and when I hear a critic speaking of an author's sincerity I know that either the critic or the author is a fool." Kinbote: "But I am told this manner of thinking is taught in high school?" "That's where this broom should begin to sweep. A child should have thirty specialists to teach him thirty subjects, and not one harassed schoolmarm to show him a picture of a rice field and tell him this is China because she knows nothing about China, or anything else, and cannot tell the difference between longitude and latitude." Kinbote: "Yes. I agree."

The City and the Pillar, Gore Vidal.

"Even so," he said quickly, "there are other things in life than being in love. Look at Jim. He's never in love, are you?"

"Of course I am. With what I want." Jim thought of Bob.

Maria was puzzled. "What do you want?"

Sullivan answered for him. "What he cannot have, like the rest of us." He turned to Maria. "Have you ever found what you wanted?"

"For a time, certainly."

"But not for long."

"No, not for long. I've failed, like everyone else."

"Why?"

"I suppose I may want more than any man cares to give. And sometimes I give more than any man wants to take."

I am the master of astronomy.

I saw a woman who resembled my eleventh grade English teacher reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being on the 6 train today. It made me smile. I came home to a package from Drag City today; yes, it is the new Joanna Newsom record, Have One On Me. I cannot wait to listen to it in its entirety. I wonder if it will knock Heartland off the top spot of my favorite album of the year thus far. I also convinced Karyn to buy House of Leaves today from Borders. I am excited to see what her reaction to it will be. I have plans to see Shutter Island on Wednesday with a few people. The wait has been, and is still killing me. Until then...

Bonus: Grizzly Bear covered Hot Chip's "Boy From School" - mp3 (thanks to prettymuchamazing)

House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski.

Y g g

d

r

a

s

i

l

What miracle is this? This giant tree.

It stands ten thousand feet high

But doesn't reach the ground. Still it stands.

It's roots must hold the sky.

O

Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller

I have reached the limits of endurance. My back is to the wall; I can retreat no further. As far as history goes I am dead. If there is something beyond I shall have to bounce back. I have found God, but he is insufficient. I am only spiritually dead. Physically I am alive. Morally I am free. The world which I have departed is a menagerie. The dawn is breaking on a new world, a jungle world in which the lean spirits roam with sharp claws. If I am a hyena I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself.

Rub out the word.

Kerouac (editing Naked Lunch): Bill, what is all this stuff about young naked boys being hanged in limestone caves?

Burroughs: No idea. I know I'm some kind of interplanetary agent but I don't think my signals are decoding properly.

Death in Venice, Thomas Mann

Thus, in his infatuation, he wanted simply to pursue uninterrupted the object that aroused him, to dream of it when it was not there, and, after the fashion of lovers, to speak softly to its mere outline. Loneliness, strangeness, and the joy of deep belated intoxication encouraged him and prompted him to accept even the remotest things without reserve or shame–with the result that as he returned late in the evening from Venice, he stopped on the second floor of the hotel before the door of the boy's room, laid his head in utter drunkenness against the hinge of the door, and for a long time could not drag himself away despite the danger of being caught and embarrassed in such a mad situation.

Adios, you who watched the sun go down, at the rail, by my side, smiling –

The New York Film Festival screenings completely took the life out of me. The ball smashing and clitoris cutting of Antichrist, the child abuse of The White Ribbon, the beauty of Penélope Cruz in Broken Embraces... it was thrilling. Still I think the Film Society of Lincoln Center needs to reboot the festival in a way, attendance seemed to be at almost at an all time low. I was so exhausted yesterday when I went to see Spike Jonze speak at the Apple Store in SoHo. Catherine Keener was there, but the sound system was very poor so it was difficult to make out what Jonze, Keener, and the crew of Where the Wild Things Are were saying. Neon Indian's Psychic Chasms was released today by Lefse Records. Pitchfork named it "Best New Music" and I love "Deadbeat Summer" so I believe there is a good chance I'd really enjoy it. I attempted to make scrambled eggs with a Mexican blend of cheeses and feta today, but when it finished cooking it had the consistency of risotto. At least the coffee I made in my French press was good. I finished Kerouac's Visions of Cody, finally. I think I'm going to go back to Pynchon's Gravity Rainbow now. I'm coming home this upcoming weekend, and hopefully seeing Where the Wild Things Are sometime soon. I wanted to see New York, I Love You, but now my interest has gone down for some strange reason. Oh well, until next time...