Terrible in so many ways, not least of which is the fact that it requires you to mispronounce Proust’s name…
What do you call it when a guy makes a deal with the devil so that he will be able to write brilliant literature, but every time he finishes a work, he’ll become physically exhausted to the point of sickness?
A Proustian bargain.
Gad. It’s the fever. And no, I don’t suppose what I just finished to be brilliant literature – hell, it ain’t even fiction. Just a Reader story. But it keeps the mortgage paid for another month, and that’s all that matters.
Still Tumbling?
Sorry… Tumbl'ng?
Sadly, no. The seven or eight people who comment at Godsbody are the reason I still do this, and Tumblr doesn't allow comments. So I cam back to Ye Olde Blogge.
It's no fun being sick, but at least you'll have a remembrance of things passed…