this was a recommendation from one of the hottest young american writers as decided by huffington or the ny times or one other such “authority”. at any rate, it was a quick read, the perfect hat trick for my recent fiction favour. i decided to return the ongoing moment, the author’s critically-acclaimed non-fiction offering that i also had in the pile of overdues-a pile that i mostly gave up on, bringing my total remaining down to 3/60. i have also started making holds active and my micro-collection is slowly growing again. i thank badu often for the public library. here’s to going out of town, and stumbling on some sex:
“That was the thing about the Biennale: it was a definitive experience, absolutely fixed, subject only to insignificant individual variation. You came to Venice, you saw a ton of art, you went to parties, you drank up a storm you talked bollocks for hours on end and went back to London with a cumulative hangover, liver damage, a notebook almost devoid of notes and the first tingle of a cold sore.” (27)
“They disentangled their legs and arms, feeling, he suspected, a little self-conscious now about how their faces had ended up in each other’s genitals. Intimacy is not consistent or uniform; it has its own delays and lags. He was also wondering, slightly, about the etiquette of what had just happened. Were they supposed to have fucked? Laura, evidently, was thinking along the same lines.” (95)
“This was the unique freedom, the supreme indulgence of the hotel room: not the opportunities for afternoon sex, for snorting coke and licking ass, but the freedom to put the telly on at any time of the day, to watch anything (basically nothing) without shame or guilt. If he spent more time in hotel rooms, he would never read another book. If the whole world lived in hotels, no one would read anything more demanding than the in-room dining menu.” (141-2)
“A strange, modern form of intimacy-not Victorian at all-that made it easier to lick someone’s ass than to ask when you might see them again.” (148)
“I’d come to Varanansi because there was nothing to keep me in London, and I stayed on for the same reason: because there was nothing to go home for.” (241)
see chris rock‘s taxonomy of “domestic dick”. even when there are no strings attached, there are puppets and marionettes. who’s pulling your (heart) strings?