Yr memory's a sucker

For no other reason than that I'm pretty sure I don't want that last post to be the last post, because seriously how lame would that be, I'll note that out of the thousand books that I'd considered for the role of being the first book I read this year, including but not limited to every book ever, I opted last night, in a post-hung-over, pre-Grand Theft Auto IV session grayish haze, to start with Proust. Which I'd seriously intended to do all of in 2008. Hilarity, kids! I figured it was either that or I finally finish off that Summer of Dostoevsky '06 project. Timelines, kids! Which makes me say that I'm not committing to any particular amount of Proust this year. Of course, I also say that if I do actually just do the whole thing in one go, the experience will at least have the curious effect of making Bolaño's 2666 look positively snack-sized in comparison, and therefore all the more inviting, or at least plausible. Or maybe just possible. Jokes about the masterstrokes of dead legends, kids!

I won't do much of any of Proust at the rate I went last night--ten pages over the course of an hour or two will not be the way to go, however much fun making sandwiches, playing with the cat, and sitting on the couch staring at the wall like a brain-dead turnip may be--but I will say this: if there were ever ten pages to be read after drinking until four in the morning before sleeping for five hours on a floor, Proust's fit the bill most tight (alright!). That noise makes sleeping and waking and thinking feel like the ultimate acid trip. Time and space, time and space. I'm in a chair, I'm in a room, I'm your brains. BRAINS.