It seems all of my blog entries of late begin with some sort of apology for not updating more frequently, so I'll break character and not apologize this time. Things lately have been really weird, and not in one of those "my girlfriend likes to use chocolate sauce and a quail feather" sort of ways. I'll spare you the exposition, but suffice it to say that there have been a number of reasons for self-doubt. (Well, moreso than usual.) There have also been ample reasons for further entrenching my cynicism, reasons best left unstated. Harrumph. I'm becoming a Graham Greene character in a Crackberry world. (A whisky-priest, surely.)
Alas, even with having gone more than two weeks since depositing an entry here, I find myself with relatively little to say. The Zaniac has informed me that there is a new book on poetry from a decidedly welcome source, the always delightful Stephen Fry. And, unfortunately, I did not see any of the coverage or interviews related to Leonard Cohen's induction into the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame, but I do want to report that I scored ten-for-ten on the CBC quiz on Montreal's most famous field commander. (As well I did, else I should have my Master's degree declared null and void.) I'd also direct people to read Peter Berkowitz's review of Theory's Empire here: especially valuable, to my mind, are Berkowitz's conclusion and the quoted Hippocratic Oath from the recently-departed Wayne Booth. The tenets of Booth's oath should be assumed, but in this day and age it's very often the most basic and the most obvious that gets lost in the shuffle. And speaking of revealing the obvious....
Anyway, that's about it for now. February is here, and with it nears one of the most dreadful of "holidays," that day when idealistic couples try to convince themselves that love isn't a many-splintered thing and lonelyhearts around the world lament their luck over ice cream and tequila. Ah, to celebrate the stuff that satirizes all. Pass the whisky.
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