Michiko Kakutani gives Tree of Smoke a favourable review (without using limn):
“He has written a flawed but deeply resonant novel that is bound to become one of the classic works of literature produced by that tragic and uncannily familiar war.”
My reading plan (yes, I have one) was to read the Jerusalem Quartet without interruption. I may have to slip in Tree of Smoke after Jerusalem Poker.
Few things excite me more than an upcoming release by one of my favourite authors.
This excerpt from Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke only serves to whet my appetite more.
I’ve been hooked on Denis Johnson since I first read Fiskadoro almost twenty years ago. I’ve reread Fiskadoro at least five times since; it ranks with The Sheltering Sky as my go-to book when nothing else satisfies.
I pity those who don’t take pleasure in reading.
Funnily enough, I was craving fried clams this past weekend. Needless to say, my cravings have gone well past the sane stage.
Once our California sojourn ends, I envision a move to the northeast (it’d be my third time back, the first for The Wife). Something about Maine, in particular, brings a huge smile to my face. You really can’t get much further or farther from California and still be in the U.S.
Am I ready to move again so soon? No . . . but I’ll always be on the lookout for new pictures. . . .
This is why, for so many years, I told people I was from Liverpool (the birthplace of my parents). Everyone knew Liverpool; no one knew Surbiton.
The reason for this tribute is also why my heart bleeds for my wounded and broken city.
The Wife’s back in steamy Dallas through Thursday; I’m holed up in our new home overlooking the Pacific and bouncing between my manuscript and Whittemore’s novels.
An overwhelming sense of purpose has accompanied the past twenty-four hours . . . far more than what usually accompanies The Wife’s travels, when I have too much time alone.
On a typical trip, I’d be looking toward the late afternoon and drinks with friends at the local pub. Not so this time. Only me, my words, and Ted’s words. It’s strange to think I spend so much time working with words when so few, especially now, come out of my mouth. . . .
What a sad state of affairs.
Click here to see the first “offensive” strip.
Political correctness must be eradicated, swiftly, and with extreme prejudice.
The time is now.
The word is Whittemore.
Ted joins my list of favourite authors: Banks, Bowles, Delany, Dodge, Dos Passos, Durrell, Erickson, Fallaci, Fante, Ford, Greene, Harrison, Hemingway, Johnson, McCarry, Mieville, Mitchell, Murakami, Portis, Pynchon, Russo, and Stone.
. . . . not necessarily for what they wrote, but for how they wrote.