"I'm starting to think something is just deeply wrong with the youth of America. First of all, a truly disturbing number of them are interested in writing fiction. Truly disturbing. And more than interested, actually. You don't get the sort of things I've been getting from people who are merely...interested. And sad, sad stories. Whatever happened to happy stories, Lenore? Or at least morals? I'd fall ravenously on one of the sort of didactic Salingerian solace-found-in-the-unlikeliest-place pieces I was getting by the gross at Hunt and Peck. I'm concerned about today's kids. These kids should be out drinking beer and seeing films and having panty raids and losing virginities and writhing to suggestive music, not making up long, sad, convoluted stories. And they are as an invariable rule simply atrocious typists. They should be out having fun and learning to type."
- David Foster Wallace, The Broom of the System
Okay, so I couldn't find the nerve to get started on IJ, so I thought I'd build up to it and start with The Broom of the System instead (the book DFW wrote, no, PUBLISHED, when he was twenty-fucking-four. And the thing is 470 pages long. And all of it - so far - pure delight. Have I mentioned how much I hate this guy?), which I'm having a real lark reading, though it's also brought on an attack or two of deja book particularly with respect to this post. Sigh.
In other news, the latest edition of the Guardian Poetry Workshop is out, and features a bunch of poems in response to Coleridge's Kubla Khan (a poem I must confess I've never personally managed to get too excited about; it's all right, I suppose, but if I want trippy dream sequences I'll stick with Rimbaud, thank you) among which a familiar name puts in an appearance.