This morning as I reclined luxuriously and sipped exotic oriental teas brewed by silk-robed hand maidens, I read the International Herald Tribune, as I am wont to do while abroad. And despite my hand maidens careful kneadings and ministrations, a paragraph within an op-ed piece by someone named Chris Cleave moved me to rage. Cleave, apparently an author of a post-9/11 novel, was writing about "post 9/11 fiction." Imagine it. Or don't, for it is below.

But if death is here to stay, so is life, and the public's liking for novels in this changed world will rightly depend on how much life there is in them. All polemic aside, a bomb is an ear-splitting statement, but for readers books are louder. Books make death a bullhorn through which life yells triumphant.

His words so enraged me that I flung my hand maidens aside, shattering their tea-colored coccyxes and delicate wrists against the fine woods and marbles appointing my luxury accomodations.

I wonder, Cleave you incredible prick, how self-importantly loud you would be if I were to stuff my fucking leg down your goddamn throat to the thickly muscled thigh? Thank Christ that no one who gets the International Herald Tribune speaks any English.

All I had to calm me was the below view of the Pearl of the Orient awakening.

Analogcabin @ 10:03 PM
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