left in dhalgren which has given me a handful of erections (i am mostly reading the book at work because i don't give a fuck about work anymore, but where erections are ... awwwwwwwkward) and even more sense of what i actually could do (someday, maybe, if i learn to give a fuck about it) to unnamed to make it into a novel that is something like what i can do and what he did there.
and the comparison - the line drawn between the two (and i readded house of leaves to my 2012 reading list, i might communicate, because it is probably another [almost rudely] apt comparison) - is so so so intense to me. and i see where his works and mine doesn't and where what we're fascinated with aren't the same thing. i think delaney is concerned, somewhat-mostly, with the ways in which a person finds meaning within himself and unnamed (if not my writing as a whole) is about the ways in which people find meaning in other things, but this is all just surface level reflection and i'm not done with the book
(AND CIRO DO YOU REALIZE YOU GAVE ME THIS BOOK TWICE???????? I DIDN'T UNTIL I WAS LOOKING FOR BOOKS TO SELL AND THEN I WAS LIKE HOLY GEEZ I AM AN ASSHOLE)
i can feel the whole weight of my creative life shifting toward something where i can understand what the volume of it is by placing on my own internal scale.