i would like to remove from my chest the weight of the following statement: tom robbins is the single most masturbatory waste of time, tree, ink, and coffeeshop banter.
ever.
onto more positive things, i just finished eugene ionesco's "the bald soprano" and paul auster's "city of glass". the former is a hilarious bit of playwriting from one of beckett's contemporaries, truly the most absurd thing i've ever read, but also consistantly funny. the latter is a bizarre detective story that reads like vachss+cervantes or somesuch. flawed, but very interesting and expertly paced.
oh, and nobody REALLY likes james joyce, unless it's the dubliners, and even that's suspect. anyone who says otherwise his either attempting to violate you or get money from you.