The Magus by John Fowlesis one of my favorite books.
Currently reading in congress with the inimitable Seth Robert Babb.
Times read: I don't even remember—4? 5?
WHAT IS IT???(Ereignis through the back door.)
Destruction of ego...ego...cogito ergo sum cogito.
Undorito sounds like MAGYAR beautiful.
Fiction. All the truths the truth cannot tell.
Conchis would disagree.
OK. Good morning.
The debonair, self-assuredly defacing manboy: Nicholas.
The damaged, deniable implausibility: Alison.
You cannot be a poet if you do not commit, I want to tell him. You cannot be a poet if you do not love. It doesn't have to be another person. It doesn't have to be yourself. Love lasagna. Love octopuses, like me. Love POETRY, for fuck's sake. Love is commitment, investment. Love is respect. Does Monsieur d'Urfe respect anything? I am thinking no. Not yet.
He has not had his Encounter.
He has not yet met hazard.
Enter Phraxos. Abandonment, isolation. What a bad idea. This is a guy who needs validation, a constant stream of vague approval as alibi for existence. He disdains most of the other professors. At least he is not a pedophile. All the brothels are in Athens. Woops.
John Fowles and his words: fenestrations...interstices. Delicious.
"And my feelings, at the end of that wretched term, were those of a man who knows he is in a cage, exposed to the jeers of all his old ambitions until he dies."
"But then the mysteries began."
"Hazard makes you elect. You cannot elect yourself."
Simian eyes, leathery skin, English-notEnglish/Greek. Con-SHISS. Who the fuck still plays Harpsichord? Chonchis...and Hannibal. That's who.
But it's about to get damn good.