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.
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.