Unbelievably funny approach to existentialism. Bizarre book, as expected from Emar, ambassador of the odd. Deeply different tenor than that of “Ten” — no horror here, only minor violences and spiraling, but so much easier when we’re together. Remarkable how much more palatable the dredging of consciousness and memory when presented by a total wife guy. Joy!

Steel wool for a palette cleanser. “There hasn’t been another American writer of Joan Didion’s quality since Nathanael West…” in the same way there hasn’t been another artist of Van Gogh’s quality since my six year old cousin Greg. In style, subject, and sympathies so vastly superior to the latter that comparison feels impractical, borderline insulting.

Penance at the foot of the red neon cross; a sword will pierce your own heart also. Overwhelming sense of resignation, removal — not a card but one left to play. Dialogue that lunges at you, and it’s a rough go all around. First of her oeuvre, but much more Didion to come, if the fates allow.

Back to back betrayals today from my two favorite publishers. Gross. Feel like I need to shower this book off of me. Various violences and revolutions on the island of Timor, told in a similar style to If On a Winter’s Night…, ever back to the beginning, every new character a new start. Not a fresh one, by any stretch. Apocalyptic starts. Something about a lion’s body, man’s head, slouching toward Bethlehem. Can’t we use our talents (and there are clear talents here, where West is too bland to redeem or fully condemn) toward the beautiful? Probably would miss the point in this case. But is this mode of evil so covert that we must retrace it in such grim detail and miserable humor? Don’t I see this evil every day?