I was drinking coffee this morning while reading The New Yorker. Which is more bitter, I asked myself, this black fair trade, or the realization that the mainstream publishing elite have yet to recognize my unique and luminary literary voice? I took another sip. The coffee is more bitter.
I assume, of course, you've read all of the following books. If you haven't, rectify that immediately if you ever hope to become one of the literary elite.
Winter has already gone on too long, and the cold has snuck into my home and my soul. There is snow outside. Thick. White. Colder than it looks.
A week ago, Christmas trees had lined the street, waiting for the garbage truck to haul them away, like the dreams of so many of the trees' former owners. In another week, I will be gone too - back to my university town, that enclave filled with people who imagine that pronouncing Goethe correctly makes one any less the fool. They are all fools, but, in a way, so am I.
We are fools until we settle into our final resting place, under the snow.