Eddie Hunsinger

Terrific book. The first Faulkner book I've read. Took me a while for various reasons, including the writing style, but it was very enjoyable and worth it.

Chapter 6 is magic (I think so, anyways), and can stand on its own if I remember right. Here's a paragraph from it:
Joe Christmas is stuck behind a curtain:
"He squatted among the soft womansmelling garments and the shoes. He saw by feel alone now the ruined, once cylindrical tube. By taste and not seeing he contemplated the cool invisible worm as it coiled onto his finger and smeared sharp, automotonlike and sweet, into his mouth. By ordinary he would have taken a single mouthful and then replaced the tube and left the room. Even at five, he knew that he must not take more than that. Perhaps it was the animal warning him that more would make him sick; perhaps the human being warning him that if he took more than that, she would miss it. This was the first time he had taken more. By now, hiding and waiting, he had taken a good deal more. By feel he could see the diminishing tube. He began to sweat. Then he found that he had been sweating for some time, that for some time now he had been doing nothing else but sweating. He was not hearing anything at all now. Very likely he would not have heard a gunshot beyond the curtain. He seemed to be turned in upon himself, watching himself sweating, watching himself smear another worm of paste into his mouth which his stomach did not want. Sure enough, it refused to go down. Motionless now, utterly contemplative, he seemed to stoop above himself like a chemist in his laboratory, waiting. He didn't have to wait long. At once the paste which he had already swallowed lifted inside him, trying to get back out, into the air where it was cool. It was no longer sweet. In the rife, pinkwomansmelling obscurity behind the curtain he squatted, pinkfoamed, listening for what was about to happen to him. Then it happened. He said to himself with complete and passive surrender: 'Well, here I am.'"

I felt it change a little in the last quarter-- goes from Coen Brothers (I'm sure it inspired them) -like to David Lynch-like, then back, then to some other director who I can't remember, and then the final chapter was different again-- That last chapter was really terrific I think, and reminded me of something, but I can't remember what. I guess there's always risk in building it up though, so if you're reading this to decide if you want to read that, maybe don't prepare for anything special.

Every character is outstanding.

It haunts.

A couple of these were so great, but couldn't catch on and had to give up on most of them-- I had the same problem with Under Milk Wood, though I did push through that one.

The End of The River was very nice-- I can enjoy how artfully he explains things:
'It had sheltered twelve generations of doggy aristocrats and their litters, had seen small boys grow to be small men, had seen them meet, mate, and lie, at last, in the depths of the family vault, their dead paws on their chests.'

Just Like Little Dogs was outstanding:Three guys just standing around smoking under an arch:
'"Why are you standing under the arch, then?' asked Tom. "It's warm at home. You can draw the curtains and sit by the fire, snug as a bug..."
'"I don't want to go home, I don't want to sit by the fire. I've got nothing to do when I'm in and I don't want to go to bed. I like standing about like this with nothing to do, in the dark all by myself," I said.
And I did too. I was a a lonely nightwalker and a steady stander-at-corners.'

idiotic, hunh.

Awesome. This one's a little darker than usual though, and I'm not sure how I feel about really heavy tone/fact getting dropped in every so often (not sure if that's good or bad for health), but it's his story to tell, and I'll buy the next one.

Was so happy that there was a little Yia Yia at the end.

Helen is awesome:
'Owing to her Sicilian blood, Helen had an innate gift for cooking. This she boasted as she jammed meatballs into a frozen pie crust. Then she drowned them in a mixture of beaten eggs and skim milk. "My Famous Italian Quiche," she called it. Other dishes included "My Famous Eggplant Parmesan with the Veal in It," "My Famous Tomato Gravy with Rice and Canned Peas," and "My Famous Spaghetti and Baked Bean Casserole."

I like Charlotte Clap, but I couldn't finish this book. Started off nice, but got too sentimental and weird. Too bad, cause from the surface it looked like it would be terrific, and would expand my horizons some. I did like the writing style a lot-- very smooth. I need a dose of Hemingway now.

I read The Bell Jar a few months back and loved it-- let me know if there's anything like that out there.

Cool book. I just like 007 going through the day-- superman doing laundry superman-style.
...really sexist, though, of course.

'Bond had always been a gambler. He loved the dry riffle of the cards and the constant unemphatic drama of the quiet figures round the green tables. He liked the solid, studied comfort of card-rooms and casinos, the well-padded arms of the chairs, the glass of champagne or whisky at the elbow, the quiet unhurried attention of good servants. He was amused by the impartiality of the roulette ball and the playing-cards -- and their eternal bias. He liked being an actor and a spectator and from his chair to take part in other mens dramas and decisions, until it came to his own turn to say that vital 'yes' or 'no', generally on a fifty-fifty chance.'

Ridiculous. Was forced by surprise to actually look away from the text at certain points.
Nice treatment of the Pope.

'He took a deep breath. He would rise above this as he had risen above all the other injustices that blighted his life. After all, he was Professor Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, author of PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS, friend of cardinals and popes. That was something to think about.
'He stopped. Should he say friends of cardinals and popes when he knew only one of each, or should he say friend of a cardinal and a pope, or even friend of a cardinal and the Pope?'

Joyous.

'Probably one of the biggest and flashiest of the hundred flies my brother made fun of was the Bunyan Bug No. 2 Yellow Stone Fly.

'I took one look at it and felt perfect. My wife, my mother-in-law, and my sister, each in her somewhat obscure style, had recently redeclared their love for me. I, in my somewhat obscure style, had returned their love. I might never see my brother-in-law again. My mother had found my father's old tackle and once more he was fishing with us. My brother was taking tender care of me, and not catching any fish. I was about to make a killing.'

Very enjoyable and nice, even though bad things, and worse things, loom-- I guess that's what it's all about, though. Popeye is terrific.

Really, really nice book. 'All the vatos never in a poem'