Tuesday, October 16, 2007
chach bag writers
I fear I already posted something with this title. But whoa, David Markson's The Last Novel totally makes me feel *GREAT*. Because other writers throughout history were WAAAAY bigger chach bags than I will ever be. For example, my coffin will never arrive in Moscow, nor will it accidentally be labeled "oysters" like Chekhov's was. I will never have a mother that is as much of a chach-bag as Schopenhauer's. I will never be as big an asshole as Gaugin. I will never urinate on my own sculptures "to add patina."
I will probably, someday, be so drunk as to leave a dinner party via fireplace, like Tennyson, though. And I am definitely Novelist, "tossing his keys into a drawer--without having opened the drawer." And I agree with Stravinsky that my art is best understood by children and animals. And I hope someday I am seen as enough of a chach-bag that someone will publish all my chach-bag quotes about masturbation.
I also love to talk shit about other writers, but now I feel sort of good about it since David Markson proves that every writer ever has done this, because we are all sniveling bags of chach with no self-esteem. I need to come up with better insults, though. Like when Mark Twain says about Jane Austin "It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death." Yeowch!
I also now LOVE John Updike for his description of critics as "Pigs at the pastry cart." Just by saying this, he has completely redeemed himself and all of his books that I hate.
What really disappointed me is that there is no more Savoy, "for poor people, sick or lame, or travelers--which also saw fit to take in struggling authors." Now only places like the Art Institute take in struggling authors, and you have to pay them to do it. That is some bullshit if I ever heard it.
Let's open our own Savoy and we will be the charity cases and we can pee on anything whenever we want to.
Also, at our meeting, can we just read this book aloud? Because it demands to be read aloud.