When I Was 35 I Realized That

Oddly, The Meanings Of Books Are Defined For Me Much More By Their Beginnings And Middles Than They Are By Their Endings.

I'm Not One Of Your Knockabout, Knuckle-scarred, Internet-controversy-courting Book Critics. Occasionally I Stumble Into Controversy Accidentally, But Not Because I Enjoy It. It's Probably Just Because I'm A Weird Person.

Every Year The Literary Press Praises Dozens If Not Hundreds Of Novels To The Skies, Asserting Explicitly Or Implicitly That These Books Will Probably Not Be Suffering Water Damage In The Basements Of Their Authors' Houses 20 Years From Now. But Historically, Anyway, That's Not The Way The Novelistic Ecology Works.

That’s What Death Did, It Treated You Like A Child, Like Everything You Had Ever Thought And Done And Cared About Was Just A Child’s Game, To Be Crumpled Up And Thrown Away When It Was Over. It Didn’t Matter. Death Didn’t Respect You. Death Thought You Were Bullshit, And It Wanted To Make Sure You Knew It.

Josh Speculated About The Hypothetical Contents Of An Imaginary Porn Magazine For Intelligent Trees That Would Be Entitled Enthouse.