Rise And Shine, Somerset
Once upon a time there was a literary magazine editor. He was a short, pudgy man who wore cloudy glasses and had greasy hair. All day long he ate egg sandwiches, and his socks stunk through his shoes. At night he’d stay in his apartment, up late, watching through a window the cars passing on the street. When it came time for him to edit, he’d strip past his underwear and remove his glasses, spin furiously in his swivel chair and then go at it — blind, naked and dizzy — until all the tales that needed were told. This is what they said: Break out your pick axe, it’s time to unearth Maugham’s grave. Tufts University has a juicy bit of late breaking news: Boston’s a literary town! Prague is up on Israeli authors, just ask Oz. The first chapter in Prison Pitt is titled “Fucked.” Read more in The Faster Times. Who here has said they’ve read Proust and actually not read him? Atone for your sins inside the Cork-Lined Room. Blah blah blah more great writers win blah blah more writing awards. And then there’s this: Maurice Sendak, champion of adolescent agitprop, tells parents to go to Hell! Well well. Sounds like someone needs an egg sandwich. — Kevin Murphy
