12 days into the new year and I have only finished one book. Though to be fair to me I read it in three days and lost it for a week under some notebooks. The book was like a conversation. Like two writers met in a bar and described an event that happened to each other. Filled in each others gaps. The same things I attack others for doing I forgive in both Burroughs and Kerouac, mostly Kerouac, because it’s a kind of simplicity that’s poetic. I fully understand why nobody wanted to publish it at the time though. It’s not fantastic, original and the plot builds to an end but it never feels like it is building. But that’s the beauty of such a conversation. Boringly interesting? If that makes sense. It’s like listening to a story you want to hear from a person you do like but it’s not thrilling.
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