Well, now I feel particularly bad about having left the Park Slope area the day before the Great House Move started. I would've come to help.
Still, someday it will be done. And then you will look around your new home and decide that you actually rather like the cartons in which you've packed everything. Or, at least, they make good coffee tables, chairs, footstools, and TV stands. Unpacking is overrated.
"Fly, my Nazgûl. Fly!" is, I assert, The Wizard of Oz.
Will Frank: Green Eggs and Ham is my favorite Dr. Seuss book. Thanks for that one.
And, back to prose for my vague attempt:
But I had seen first one and then another of the spaces in which I had slept during my life, and in the end I would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: places in Mordor, where on trying to sleep I would at once burrow my head into a shelter woven out of the most diverse materials -- the corner of my chainmail, the top of my tunic, a piece of a cloak, the edge of a rock, and the chain on which I held my Ring -- which I had contrived to cement together, bird-fashion, by dint of continuous pressure; places where, in freezing weather, I would suffer the torment of being shut out from the inner world (unlike other Hobbits, who build in holes in the hillsides and are kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, a fire prohibited lest we be seen, I would lie awake wrapped up, in a great cloak of orc design, shadowed by the cover of clouds intermittently closing over the moon, a sort of alcove without walls, a cave of fear dug out of the heart of Mordor itself, a zone of terror whose boundaries were constantly shifting and altering in temperature as gusts of air traversed them to strike freshly upon my face, from the corners of the region or from parts near the stream or far from the fires of Mount Doom which had therefore remained cold....
Er... The sentence really ought to go on for quite a while yet, but I don't know how much longer I could keep that up.
I got so overexcited about Bloomsday 100 that I called my Joyce-hating mother at work to make her go look at the little James Joyce on the Google main page.
-sigh- I wish to hell I could do something with other obsessed people today.
I do assert that it's Raymond Chandler.
It took me forever to come up with his name--I kept thinking, "Ooh! That guy who wrote that book that I read!"--but 6 and 7 sound like Raymond Chandler to me.
I was going to guess Dashiell Hammett, but the only Hammett I've read isn't in the first person.
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| 2004 | 8 |
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