RIP David Markson

Venom Literati favorite David Markson died on Friday.

In memoriam, our former posts that mentioned him:

It all started with Wayne Koestenbaum.
And then we bought The Last Novel.
And then we loved it.
And then we loved it some more.
And then we invited him to our meeting.
And then he didn't come.
And then he set us free.

A walk down Venom Literati memory lane. We'll miss you, David Markson.

The Only Cool People at My Job are Victor and Alan

Everyone at my workplace sucks, except Victor and Alan. Allow me to introduce you.

Alan has chicken-blonde hair and is older than me but looks like he is 19. He speaks dramatically about everything he hates, especially the workplace, in the tone of a gossipy mom. He teaches research methods to art students at Columbia, which would be the most hilarious and awesome job ever. I barely know Alan, which is why he is cool.

Victor I barely know also. Victor is adorable and Asian. He giggles a lot. He is a supergenius and always degrades himself anyway. Like he pretends he doesn't know how to use PowerPoint for the benefit of my self-esteem. Victor is so smart and nice. I should have invited him over yesterday when I was trying to refill my ink cartridge in a cheapskate way: with one of those 10-dollar universal refill kits. I just got ink all over my hands. Then I thought I had gotten it to work, and all my printer did was print blank pages.

Jessie is not cool. For one, he is a man and spells his name like that. For two, he scowls around weasel-like all the time. I think he can spin his head completely around like an owl. He should to live in the woods. That way his family can be free of him.

Wow, it is gratifying to talk about people by name. I blame David Markson for this new love.

When Venom Literati becomes a press, Victor and Alan can be in charge of administrative duties. We will not have to ever get to know them, therefore they will be the best and cutest employees ever.

The Real Heroes

If only David Markson had attended. Or David Lee Roth. Or Beachwood.

Writers: They're Just Like Us!

I read The Last Novel yesterday and the day before yesterday, and very much liked it.

There's something really comforting in reading about other writers saying and doing stuff that is either mean or dumb (or, your know, smart or insightful).

It's sort of like that spread in celebrity magazines where we see Heath Ledger picking his nose and Kate Hudson making out with that dude with girl hair in the produce aisle.

Also, it is very depressing to recognize that I have a spot in my brain for Heath Ledger, and can find out loads of information at him with but a few key strokes, but nobody will tell me if they've recently spotted David Markson wandering the streets of New York City.

Let's start a magazine. We'll put Wayne on the first cover, of course. In the red turtleneck, even more of course. We'll invade writers' privacy and elevate them to the level of, say, an Owen Wilson or a Miley Cyrus.

We'll take gentle stalking to the next level.

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.

A Major Offense Involving Barnes & Noble

Ugh, Literati, I fear I have committed a major offense. Yesterday I bought David Markson's The Last Novel at Barnes and Noble, rather than ordering it from his awesome publisher.

My reason being that I freaked out and had to have a book to read immediately and then I was in Barnes and Noble and, well... See, the other book I am reading is called The American Prose Poem: Poetic Form and the Boundaries of Genre. It is sort of awesome, but I hope you can understand why I needed something else to read pronto.


Please know that I did not take the Barnes and Noble cashier's advice and get their stupid card that makes you buy everything there because you can save, like, 3 cents every time you use it.

Oh Literati, please forgive me. I will sincerely apologize to David Markson in our letter, and address myself as a "chach-bag writer," to use my new favorite term, coined by Meghan Austin.

(See pretentious picture of our favorite chach-bag writer above. I will also send David a picture of myself in this same pretentious pose, but in front of Burrito House or something.)