Yeah, I'm talking about Paul Monette's sumptuous masterpiece, written just before he died from AIDS.
I've just finished reading Rough Music, by Patrick Gale, another masterly composition, filled with the soft melancholy of life, and I thought to myself, fuck, why do I bother keeping on writing when I know for a fact that others do it so consummately, so polished, so effing well, and I produce this prose as constipated as a municipal flowerbed outside the municipal shithouse, all salvias and lavenders and overdone roses, with all the originality and talent of a Country Women's Association cake sale? Why?
4 comments:
"and I produce this prose as constipated as a municipal flowerbed outside the municipal shithouse, all salvias and lavenders and overdone roses,"
ROFL. OMG! LOL!! That's great prose. Write a humourous gay shaded story Nigel!
I have. Well, it has a lot of humour in it. It's called I Get No Kick from Champagne, and you can find it here
But what happened to the chapters beyond No. 8?
Ah.... I've been working on Wilde Oats which always takes up a lot of time. I should be able topost chapter 8 of Champagne in a coupla days.
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