sexta-feira, fevereiro 10, 2006

Last Exit to Brooklyn

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I didn't realize that Hubert Selby Jr. also wrote Requiem for a Dream. He died April 26, 2004. I read Last Exit in the 60s, and what stayed with me was the desperation of the flunky who finds that when the cash stops flowing his happiness ends as well. This is what I have been thinking of for the past few weeks. In the book I think it was a homosexual tryst that he was having, but it can end the same for anyone, homosexual or not. I can't remember what happens to him? He dies somehow I think.

I sat one night in a bar in Rio with a clever british guy who explained to me why it is that otherwise sensible first world men may prefer third world women, and often go far astray pursuing them. The explanation was in terms of the low self-esteem and self-worth that come from a few divorces and a few too many encounters with left-lib feminists. Very well summed up by Robin Williams who said that "divorce comes from a latin word meaning to extract your genitals through your wallet."

I can't find an e-text copy of the book anywhere, I guess someone somewhere is still making a profit from it.

The painting is by an anonymous Canadian - Nik - but who has a blog: . Kill Everything and a website: Nikart. The other photos are from Kittyfeet.

Wikipedia: Last Exit to Brooklyn

I was trying to make sense of things this morning, with the help of a few of the columnists at the Globe - I added a few notes to the post on Um Nidal, below.

Northrop Frye said somewhere that this is the great struggle - making sense. Even people like Talking Heads' David Byrne with his movie Stop Making Sense.

I saw Byrne in Rio a few years ago at a club called Canecão. He had a delightful female string section, stand-up bass, cellos, violins, and a one-man percussion section that sounded like half a dozen. By the time he was done, and without a word of português, he had everyone on their feet. Wonderful!

I am finally getting around to realizing that, while Frye was right and what he said was true, still, all of the sense we make is fiction of one kind and another. I have always insisted on commonalty. One of my friends used to say that there were two types - isolatos, who knew that death was the end, and more-or-less defiant communal deny-ers like me, but here I am at last, so it goes ... bit of a joke ... who can say?

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