Luke > Recent Status Updates

Alright everyone. Get ready for Nobel Prize for Lit Thursday (1:00 PM CET for anyone who needs specifics).

Today's the first day I've gone to my usual religiously held to library sale since August 2015. Little has changed, and most of that change has been for the better.

Let's see how well this has aged.

I don't know how I missed hearing about Kertész' death. This is what happens when you're young and think that you're going to return to a number of authors eventually. At least I encountered Fateless while he was still around.

By any proper civilized standard (but what does that mean now?) we are objects of horror. But our nerves are completely steady. And we are still alive.

The state is always the same. The only reason it financed literature up till now was in order to liquidate it.

I honestly think if the war went on for a hundred years another language would evolve, one that was capable of describing the sound of a bombardment or the buzzing of flies on a hot August day on the Somme. There are no words. There are no words for what I felt when I saw the setting sun rise.

I could do without the apologisms for Fascism.

The only reason I can imagine for why reviewers denigrate this book for being too political is that they prefer reading about governments politically tearing marginalized people apart than about marginalized people politically pulling themselves back together. As always, in the words of the inimitable Hurston, if you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it.

At least West knows what's what about capitalism, albeit on the simplest level.

Anyone who thinks this shit that went down with Ferrante was in anyway okay can go ahead and defriend me right now. I'll smoke you out soon anyway.

All the reviewers whining about this being too political tells me this is my jam.

Oh, I say. These settler cannibals. Why don't they just steal our land, mine our gold, chop down our forrests, pollute our rivers, enslave us to work on their farms, fuck us, devour our flesh and leave us alone? Why must they also write about how much joy we possess?

Officially started putting money where my mouth is on the subject of grad school. All I can say is, better late than never.

Broken heart, you

timeless wonder.


What a small

place to be.

Acquiring wealth he has also acquired a complete faith in the advancements of Europe. Perhaps this would prove to be his fatal flaw.

If every man in this courtroom had had his penis removed, what then?

There is a certain type of writer who would have benefitted from an early introduction to fan fiction, so that they might distinguish between narrative creativity and dehumanizing anthropology. Milton was one, but had a good enough style and knowledgeable thrust to maintain the quality of Paradise Lost. Unfortunately for West, I chose to pick up her prose, rather than her poetry.

Good lord how West hates queer people. Probably a natural consequence of her trying to explain why historical figures acted the way they did through conjectures about their bedroom activities.

Photo's don't seem to be showing up in my feed, so let's try this:

People who use the required friend request answer space to bypass my friends-only messaging setup will be blocked.

Hello all. Massive book sale means I need input on whether to get things:

For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf
The Power of Flies
Julia and the Bazooka
Now You're One of Us
Out of Time
The Heart of Redness
Nigerians in Space
Potiki

Comment if you need an author name.

The Islamophobia dramatics are a bit much, especially in conjunction with other passages that could've come straight from the pages of 'The History of White People', albeit on the side of the criticized, not the critical.

There is a theory that the decay of taste is somehow linked with the growth of democracy, but that is completely disproved by the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which in its last eighty years grew in fervour for absolutism and for Messrs. Maple of Tottenham Court Road.

My reading just doesn't feel stable anymore without at least one 750+ pager in the docket.

One began by finding mental illness mystifying, and ended by being still more mystified by health.

If you say, "I think it's morally wrong for young men to be sent out to slaughter each other," God help you.

I need to finish this trilogy off before I completely forget what's going on.

I'm a lot more interested in books that hit the shelves one to two to three centuries and/or a millenia ago than the titles that resemble a weather forecast more than a written buffet, but that won't make Goodreads money.

I had, so to speak, accepted "normality" as a temporary employee in the corporation of my body.