NP {now P} : Fox/"Watchmen" /Tangents

[robinlandseadel at comcast.net]

          Dave Monroe:
          This is all I have, esp. in the wake of Against the Day.

Yes indeedy, that compulsive [by now ritualistic] turning and turning 
the pages of each novel into the widening gyre, like Melville going 
apeshit crazy over ambergris:

http://tinyurl.com/5hejeh

          Michael Bailey:
          wai-wai-wai-wai-wait!  "A book is dead once read, some say;
          I say it has not yet even begun to reify the late-capitalistic 
          mindset"

I say, a Pynchon novel hasn't had time to sink in till its incarnation 
as a remaindered item, better still as pure garbage, like that copy of 
"The Crying of Lot 49" I picked up in the waste disposal unit of 
Campus Bookstore Exchange, now Ned's:

http://tinyurl.com/6gvqbs

[what I was really looking for was a screen-grab of Ned 
throwing books into the fire, something of a developing 
taste for Neddy Boy.]

          Michael Bailey:
          I'm so glad that it's not P's brand-new book anymore...not only 
          can the exegesis begin in earnest, but also, just maybe, we 
          can start waiting for his next new book.

I wore my first copy out, had sections fall out and then re-glue them, now 
have more multi-colored stickers than pages. The cover looks like it
was cratered by cluster bombs. I should encase this beast, this partially 
rotated Quarternian, this tree of Diana still growing, in optical grade calcite
with chi-chi rivets fastening the corners [perhaps an Art Nouveau creation, 
very Flanders] and display it under cold blue florescent overhead light
in a military aircraft hanger that's been converted into a vegan rave.
 
          "it could happen"

Fer shure.

Till then, a fresh copy of Against the Day [Hardback, Green and in 
better shape than all but a few] arrived from "Owl of Minerva Books", 
Oakland CA. I'm 15 pages into Ross Macdonald's "Sleeping Beauty",
but Masocriticsm keeps pulling me away, as it alternatively bemoans 
the death of the avant garde and keeps one in stiches with its 
dead-eyed portrait of avant-wanna-bes, the easy commodification
of avant garde artifacts. It's an act of masochism just thinking about 
this absurdist process, and Paul Mann knows it, and incorporates it into 
his text. Masocriticsm is the Rodney Dangerfield of Po-Mo Lit-Crit.