2011-05-07 - 9:59 p.m.
Just now, I was reading this funny and sad little novel by Nicholson Baker, The Anthologist. It's about a poet who's trying to write an introduction to an anthology of rhyming poetry. But he can't get started. Instead of writing the essay, or even writing poetry of his own, he spends the whole book telling you about rhyme and poets and meter and he generally just procrastinates and as the book goes on, you can see his world sort of crumbling. But it's funny, and here's an example of why. He's describing two poets who take a break from their lives long enough for this:
"So they had their lost weekend together, drinking quarts of liquor and doing every wild fucky thing that you can imagine that two manic-depressive poets might do."
"Every wild fucky thing that you can imagine." That's a really funny word. I like this Nicholson Baker. The best thing about novels, I think, is that entering of a world. In this world, the narrator procrastinates and gets sadder and sadder and uses words like "fucky." In others, there are colors and foods and textures and bus stations. I wonder if I could make up a world with enough piled-up fake realness that it might be mistaken for the actual thing. It'd be quite a feat.
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