If I were a doctor my doctor name would be Dr. Bravo, because this is what my patients will say after I treat them.

“Now I know how Joan of Arc felt…”

“You know I’ve been reading about it, unpasteurized milk is actually pretty good for you.”. “It’s so good to see you’ve been looking after your health honey. We love you!”

I mistrust those without a weakness for cloying saccharinity, mugler angel, riesling, molto dolce, Cameron Crowe. Dismiss them as superficial, gaudy, “wah wah it gives me a headache waaah why isn’t it grimy and gross and amoral” you are weak.

RT @blown_through: I love poetry because when one imagines Robert Dudley the 1st Earl of Leicester, infamous husband-poisoner, watching a p….

There is no repression in Genet, no silence in Schwob except as means toward further gooning, concessional points of contrast there to be profaned for extraction of further ugliness, miscegenated each with the cruel impulse they belie, this itself the most ghastly insult of all.

Colette Genet etc are all fatally gooned by this same epistemania of “the french novel”—which exists inasmuch as a “Catholic novel” does: oxymoron—escaped only partially by Gide by virtue of his protestantism, Celine his atheism, and (very) occasionally Flaubert, by amputation.

I do not mean, by the way, the infantile “anti regime” or soi-disant “anti-russian” art, this shrill pretense of insubordination is itself slavic—Russian authors love being like “I freaking hate this country….these people…….what if there a man who was the size of a hat”.

All beauty in Russian art, slavic in general rly is born of a quiet loathing for either its own russian nature or that of its subjects, the (generously) 3 or 4 good Russian novels successful according to their thoroughness in untethering from any slavic spirit or impulse.

new from the London Review of Books: in “fiercely compassionate” new novel, the “greatest modernist for our time” makes “compelling” argument for infant chemical castration.

The parapolitics man: our true historian, his knowledge hard-fought skimming wikipedia articles about something called “The Trieste Surprise”.

Wieland imagines a Greece who’s women wear exclusively Yohji Yamamoto suits.

Instead, we chose gooning. Pleats Please Issey Miyake. The camps.

Yohji Yamamoto suits are perhaps the only chance in history we as women have had of being dignified as a sex.

The Ezra Pound Groyper, not 4 hours after arriving in London, decided to scale the comically large cannon in front of the imperial war museum and stand triumphantly atop it in some half-martial posture, wished to be photographed doing so.

We will start having Spaces again, very soon.

Woman for her minstrelsy, man for his entertainment hereby: The Camps.

The shorthouse.

“Quifano’s Ugly-Fucking-Paintings Groyper”: this guy is real sick and twisted and something should be done.