New Jersey makes poems.
I read The Sunlight Dialogues and swore off lengthy realistic fiction forever.
Read The Fall in a daze & rekindled a cautious love for Camus.
Got halfway through The Prince and realized there’s a reason they just tell you about it in history class instead of making you read it.
The best adjective for Paul Celan’s poetry is “spiny” [Pierre Joris]. I’m re-reading his selected poems but by re-reading I mean actually reading. They’re like closely-knit stellar explosions.
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