And the Masked Man with His Chopper: We Know Him

This dumb review of Krasznahorkai's *Herscht 07769* has all the litfolk on xhitter who take photos of seven 1000 page novels stacked atop one another and xhit it out with the caption "Last week's reading" in a tizzy meaning some of it must yoink true, laugh
I am on page 223 of *Herscht 07769* but on hiatus since last Thursday
I loved the *Melancholy of Resistance* - *Satantango* - especially *War and War* and *Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming* tetrology and still VOUCH for them
At this moment in time I type this sentence the work and time and effort spent on reading *Herscht 07759* wasted work and time and effort
Granted my eyes are old and diseased, my memory degrading (it's frightening), I can nap for the first time in my life without waking up yellow so I can't read in bed like I did my whole life, I'm not reading any novel, any poetry, and expect to be consumed and rewarded for it now like once upon
Other old people tell me this is normal and not a personal failing, they aren't right but they're not wrong
I haven't dropped the *I am telling you three time we are being reprogrammed* gag in awhile, a choice, not my senility
Re: "I am telling you three times" - allusion to Vollmann's *Dying Grass* (how did Vollmann not make that guy's list of brodernists), my favorite novel, I've read it three times, I feel safe in betting pints there won't be a fourth							⇧
People - smart people - underestimate the number of and strength of the mind-bending side-effects of the constant whipsawing psyops shitlords feed us
I can't read if I'm compulsively building these grids because I start to read a novel and two pages in I've surrendered to the latest horrifying omens of clusterfuck contemplation which I don't notice with the novel until six pages later I don't remember reading
I never acquired the academic scaffolding I could have to be a professional OR amateur brodernist when I decided decades ago I didn't *want* academic scaffolding, I had the free ride to try but chose instead to spend time with my wife and child, but I hereby resign whatever pretentions and aspirations I had to become a brodernist (or pretend to be one on the internet), my head is too busy, too noisy, too fading trying to keep up with the clusterfuck for the busy noisy cinderblock novels I loved for fifty years, I need something as universally kaboom as a gloriously brodernist encyclopedic omfg novel and just as clusterfuckful but without the omfg, I have enough in real life
I'm back on the murnane, and I've ishiguro in the medicine cabinet too. I'll be OK
Tomorrow a BLCKDGRD Holy Day, hint							⇩

NO SPEECH FROM THE SCAFFOLD

Thom Gunn

There will be no speech from
the scaffold, the scene must
be its own commentary.

The glossy chipped
surface of the block is like
something for kitchen use.

And the masked man with his
chopper: we know him: he
works in a warehouse nearby.

Last, the prisoner, he
is pale, he walks through
the dewy grass, nodding

a goodbye to acquaintances.
There will be no speech. And we
have forgotten his offense.

What he did is, now,
immaterial. It is the
execution that matters, or,

rather, it is his conduct
as he rests there, while
he is still a human.