I'm reading Patricia Highsmith's Ripley novels this summer, which I apparently keep refering to under the collective title The Incredible Mr. Ripley. It's wonderful to be swept away into this world of subtrafuge, in which a charming young man connives and lies his way into people's lives.
Also on my list this summer: Robinson Jeffers, Brad Watson, Stephen Elliott, Percival Everett, George Barker, Brenda Shaughnessy, Jonathan Swift. Odd assortment, I know. Just finished a Nathanael West novel and the manuscripts for Jim Ellidge's and Pimone Triplett's next books.
It's actually quite a good reading summer for me. Amazing how much free time one can have once one is divested of a relationship.
It was good to be in a relationship. It was bad to be in a relationship with someone who was an incredibly Ripleyesque creature. But wonderful to have something to write about. Have finished several new poems, including one called "Narcissus in St. Louis" and one called "Do the Hustle." Neither of which is particularly apropos of anything. When life is not poetry, it is fiction. Always sad to near the end of either, even if the subjects pain you.
2 months ago