I was having coffee with Dan a few weeks ago, and he admitted to me that he didn’t think these things were Art:
As for this one, I agree with him.
Speaking of Art: seeing George Saunders at Oberlin on Wednesday.
I was having coffee with Dan a few weeks ago, and he admitted to me that he didn’t think these things were Art:
As for this one, I agree with him.
Speaking of Art: seeing George Saunders at Oberlin on Wednesday.
This beautiful little book came out sometime around when Meg and I got married. It is a document of Anders Nilsen’s relationship with his fiance, Cheryl Weaver, who died of hodgkins lymphoma in 2005. It reads somewhat like a heartbreaking, full-color issue of FOUND magazine dedicated to a couple: there are scanned postcards, hand-written letters on notebook paper, ticket stubs, photographs, and of course, Nilsen’s wonderful comics.
For obvious (or not so obvious?) reasons, I stayed far away from this book until a good time had passed since our wedding. (It was difficult — until now, I’ve read every work of Nilsen’s as soon as I could get my hands on it. He is one of my favorites.) About a month ago, I read THE END, which is actually something of a sequel to DON’T GO. DON’T GO finally came in the mail today (yes, it arrived with the steaks), and I read it tonight in one sitting.
What to say about this book? What you say about all great books: as little as possible.
Buy it. Read it. It does what great art does best: makes you stop and look around. Makes you want to keep on living.
All day I had been thinking about Kurt Vonnegut, and after reading this book, I thought of a little something he asked of all of us: “I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.'”
We got home from Columbus tonight to find what could be our last, and possibly most awesome wedding present:
Aunt Cindy: you’re the best.
“If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:
THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
WAS MUSIC”
– Kurt Vonnegut, Man Without A Country
My favorite living writer is dead.
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.
A short one:
No, this poem isn’t about my wife. She isn’t old.
My buddy Don sent me this quote by Douglas Hofstadter from I Am a Strange Loop, which makes me want to read it:
“In the end, what is the difference between actual, personal memories and pseudo-memories? Very little. I recall certain episodes from the novel or the movie Catcher in the Rye or the movie David and Lisa as if they had happened to me – and if they didn’t, so what? They are as clear as if they had. The same can be said of many episodes from other works of art. They are parts of my emotional library, stored in dormancy, waiting for the appropriate trigger to come along and snap them to life, just as my “genuine” memories are waiting. There is no absolute and fundamental distinction between what I recall from having lived through it myself and what I recall from others’ tales. And as time passes and the sharpness of one’s memories (and pseudo-memories) fades, the distinction grows ever blurrier.”
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