shitting in a hole and trying to read a copy of ‘Portnoy’s Complaint’ that was airdropped by accident 10 years ago in Afghanistan.” That’s how Tao Lin describes the greatness of Roth in the latest issue of The Stranger, in an article titled “The Levels of Greatness a Fiction Writer Can Achieve in America”. I liked this article, and I think the implicit comparison drawn between the megalomania of authorship and the random value of pets and methods for going mobile is especially awesome. Is there possibly a connection between the veneration accorded our most eros-driven writer and our capacity for destruction? Maybe. Just maybe.
And I really, really, really liked this paragraph (Noah Cicero – I hadn’t heard of him, either – is the author of the novel Burning Babies and blogs at The Outsider):
CENTIPEDE IN THE DARKNESS: Noah Cicero. Has published seven books. One on Lulu, two on his personal blog, and four POD on small presses. Rarely, if ever, has sex with fans he meets on MySpace. Gets more hits on his blog in half a week than has sold books in five years. Ignored by all print, for-profit media except in foreign countries. Makes enough money from his writing to get drunk once a season. Will likely die alone of something easily treatable if he’d had money or motivation to go to a doctor. Will be forgotten in 20 years (while he is still alive) when he loses the ability to blog after getting first-degree burns on both hands while boiling potatoes at work. Will be rediscovered 60 years after his death. Blog will be published as a hardcover in 2270 on Mars.
Hoo-ray for Centipedes!
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