Reading text that is rational in form but nonsensical in
overall context, all couched in a florid style immaculately constructed, can be
most satisfying if you happen to be a bit on the far side yourself.
Irishmen say ‘boyo.’ That came as quite a shock, I can tell
you.
Music goes well with reading, but badly with writing. Music
is the ketchup to the chips of reading, but writing has more of the chocolate
truffle about it, and we all know that chocolate truffles and ketchup do not
play happily together.
I very much like the word ‘jackanapes.’ It’s a word that, so
far, hasn’t appeared in At Swim-Two-Birds,
so I assume the connection must have something to do with my habit of
consorting with tangents.
Other Note:
Though the fire was warm and the reading soporific, I
consciously avoided falling asleep in the armchair tonight. Having first woken
into a dream, and then progressed to waking into a dream in which I suffered
hallucinations, I shudder to think what might come next. I fear I might be on
the verge of being cast adrift on the sea of alternate reality without the
benefit of oars, engine, rudder, sail, two-way radio, YouTube, or a serving
wench with whom to consort in the absence of tangents.
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