Friday, January 09, 2009

Belacqua, c'est moi

Off this afternoon for a weekend at lovely Sanibel Island, on the Gulf coast – white sand, lashings of seashells, birds' cries & the surf in one's ears all night.

In the grip of an unaccountable – but all too familiar – acedia. Too torpid to put pen to paper or listlessly turn a book's pages, save for the scholarly porn of James Knowlson's Beckett life, which trundles from one somatically manifested neurosis to the next. Will our hero make it thru the chapter? How can he live to write all those books he hasn't gotten to yet?


Robert Zamsky said...

Crossing the peninsula, eh? Welcome to the left as we've got it. We're not far, should time allow.

- rz

Joseph said...

And have no qualm about cooking us some lobster, if the opportunity arises. Its a quick death, God help us all . . .