Crooked Finger (crookedfingers) wrote,
Crooked Finger

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to wander in the solitary fulgurization of light who will be vaporized

It is 5:04 PM Wednesday evening in the flow of life. I am down in the lower level of our home writing on my newest lap top computer. I came down here to put wet clothes in our dryer and to write some words. Since I got up so early this morning right now I feel wasted. I plan to go to bed early tonight.

Carol left this afternoon with her girlfriend Rene around 2:30 PM to visit a friend of theirs up north (northern Michigan). It should be a pretty drive going up north this afternoon as being the autumn colors are very bright this week. I have been reading my books all afternoon. Right now I am reading "Laura Warholic, or The Sexual Intellectual" a novel by Alexander Theroux. I am finding this novel by Theroux amusing. I like the language of this novel. I thought since I am all alone this evening and there is nothing to do super important I would quote from this novel so as to give you a taste of Theroux's prose style.

"What Ratnaster did not like; he hated. If there were two things he hated, one was man, the other God. He was a betrayed man who, needing adversaries to lean against to feel the heat, considered forgiveness a weakness and detente a defect. The one person he could manage to hold in high regard was Eugene Eyestones, who once had given him money when he was in duress. Much of his anarchy paraphrased a deep anger long burning in him for having once written a masterpiece of novel, later published in high acclaim, that had been notoriously mishandled for years by several perfectly stupid literary agents, trollops of Gothic ignorance, and then a series of bird-witted editors and various trumpeting drudges wasting his time who actually belonged to the sub-zoolgy of fat men, a category Ratnaster vehemently despised. Ratnaster's eyes were atrociously and atrabiliously black, flat, and hard-they never seemed to blink-and he had a visible deformity. His right hand which hung with no movement, was the most direct source of his misanthropy, at least everyone suspected. There was no living appendage there. He had been born without a right hand. It was as if his viperlike malignity, drastically evident, could be visually traced as a prop to the menacing-looking black glove covering the primitive prosthetic device in its stead, a coil-hard spring between the artificial thumb and forefinger that snapped to action like some arcane and menacing weapon summoned at any time to do his bidding. Ratnaster was a heavy smoker-it was the expenses of a lung operation Eyestones helped him to defray-and always held a cigarette with the burning end straight up, pinching the fag end of the weed like a penalty, as if maliciously, less to hold than inflict it.

Larry Clucker, the Quink janitor, then came into Welfare's to give the door-keys to Ann Marie Tubb. His overcoat was dingy brown with one button dangling, and he was wearing heavy rubbers. A weird elongated creature with a whitewall haircut who had the big head as hands and as well fat thighs of the acromegalic, he was an uninhibited cross-dresser suffering from Gender Identity Disorder who constantly appeared in frocks. He was a germaphobe as well and often carried in public, and sometimes wore, hideous pairs of transparent latex hair-coloring gloves to avoid stains and to keep from getting defiled. His eyes were so cretinously close together that he could have worn a monocle. The cheap inter-sex colognes he wore, which could have kept flies off a dead carp, often prompted rude and sarcastic smooching sounds from his fellow workers who called him Cherie and Gladiola and Pillow Biter, which yet never prevented him-a caliber of ignorance is to ignore-from standing in with the group. An oddball void of any identifiable universe, he revolved about the office trancelike and was morbidly a friend to nobody on earth except the pathetic Abe, that intractable stuttering son-he was over twenty but acted like an eight-year old-of the two generally loathed managing editors of the magazine, Judith and Jim San Diego, who could always be found futzing around the office doing nobody quite knew what." pg. 26,27 Alexander Theroux

an interview with Alexander Theroux

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