A Door Is Opened
March 25, 2011
Proverbs in a Time of War
March 30, 2011

Good writing is like sex. There’s so much of it out there, it’s not a matter of finding the best kind, but picking the one that shakes you irredeemably.

A man I once knew (Biblically) who had a penchant for obscure literary texts he’d read to me by the light of a Zippo, said in a more revelatory moment that a ravishing chapter should be followed by a Cuban and a glass of Woodbridge Merlot. “It’s hardly writing if you don’t smoke and sip,” he whispered after Thomas Pynchon had tied our brains in knots and our legs in a fleshy pretzel. He fancied himself a literary dirigible, up and away.

But like any good bursting physical affair, you sometimes drain the horned beast. There’s lack and lassitude, the whole mess being nothing more than a persistent motion. Why follow through? Why climax at all?— Just run for the cigar and the bottle.

Like most men, I got tired of Pynchon. And Chesterton. And the Bible. Like most men, I got tired of sex. I suppose there are moments when I would do away with the rigamarole and just have an orgasm. No decanting. No foreplay. No teasing the tip with a flame. No tenderness. Just the arousal of Mother Nature and be done with it. More like Cummings than like Poe.

But then, I was never good at savoring a glass between pillow talk and dreams. Smoke, for that matter, irritates my eyes.

1 Comment

  1. Mike says:

    ummm. wow. lol

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Time limit is exhausted. Please reload CAPTCHA.