And, also, I just finalized my reading of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. Now the time is almost midnight. I am drained. Weary. The story of an unreliable narrator devising a surreal breakdown of plot and character, impractical details— I have to soak in this one for awhile.
Taking the language from experience to recreate experience.
Yet, a nagging feeling keeps pestering me—that I read the book before this week—years ago I mean. Some of the scenes echo in my memory: the comparison of bombed-out Dresden to the lunar surface. The mention of multiple sex partners as procreation practices for the race of aliens from another dimension. A heavy déjà vu hovers over the reading lamp.