Okay. I'll have as much to say today about life as I have in the last few days: little.
Somehow, the time has disappeared. It ran off in a wild affair with the money, they even took the credit. They have been seen here and there, doing a lot of nightclubbing, we're told. The bills of the past keep rolling in.
I have begun reading Bangkok Days by Lawrence Osborne, The Insult by Rupert Thomson next. I spent most of the day reading yesterday, finishing Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis, almost finishing The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. It is all I want to do some days: read, lots.
Everything goes wrong in books. The good ones, anyway. It is somehow restful, the damaged beauty of it.
Well, except for Fromm. He is very serious about Love. I read this book years ago in a series with a few others like it. I was more inclined to give a writer the benefit of the doubt then. I see that now. Perhaps my innocence is also off having a ménage a trois with the chrono-cash duo. They're all doing a lot of ecstasy, lounging about all day.
It won't last of course, the perpetual leisure. What's left of the innocence will find its way back, battered and bruised, telling proud but crazed tales; humbled though not disgraced. We will likely never see nor hear from the others again.
It is the way of memory, it saves only what it can.
