Monday, November 20, 2006


I have been sitting at this table all weekend listening to Scarlotti and rereading Ford Madox Ford's "The Good Soldier"... a story of two couples who are muddeling through adulterous relationships where there are no winners, only losers, and ruminating about my own life. Hopeless, empty, berift of any redeeming virtues... Ford was the very first of the modernists, once shared the editorship of a literary magazine with Hemingway. Friend of Eliot, friend of Gertrude Stein, friend of Pound, friend of all those post war horror realists. Claimed to be a sentimentalist, said it with apology.

Scarlotti, of course, has been a good supporter of sentiment for centuries. I'll cling to that as an antidote to the poison of sentimental angst. Vado Satanus.

No wonder I'm so cheerful. Maybe I'll go cut my own throat.