I am actually reading Les Chants on kindle, and despite the Dadaists, but for Ducasse's age and early death, I regret losing my money on this kind of hyper-romantic spleen, and do not see the allure in corrupting children, even in a fantastical mode. No use for children here, nor pederasts who stand in violent opposition to God as a character. There was a poster whose avatar on the literature network forums was Etienne. He was Ducasse's advocate during my active years. Pedophiles should be executed, if the predation is serial, and prolonged, though no one will pay me any mind when it comes to men like Jerry Sandusky; I'd lay odds he will be killed in prison. My failed ambition is rather like a dead crane shot out of the sky with pellets of the appropriate size, or Joey's dying face on my bathroom floor, frozen in place, which is in no way related to the arrested triggers of prepubescent arousal. I am a doomed failure, and do not know what to do about it. My lungs will kill me soon enough, even though one of my white collar professional sources got back to me, I am not sure how to save my article except to start rewriting it and then maybe pitch it elsewhere or send it back to this particular editor. I am juggling too many variables, in the article itself, in how much reading and writing and thesis research and viewing I can do in a day tending to cats I mainly do not want, and I have to go shopping. Charmed as I am that UpstateCP now follows me, of what use they are or can be to me at that distance remains unknown. I scanned Blogger earlier and found the mostly inactive accounts of little interest, but assume there must be a way to search for wonks of similar vent who are more active, and I need learn how to find.
The gradations of French social intelligence, particularly as Proust deploys it in his masterwork, is a good starting point for entering into my paradigm shift on the issues surrounding the cultural memes of same sex orientation; at least when I am feeling better.
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