Jess Gulbranson pulls things out of his anus to the delight of Los Lobos

I used to be really obsessed with language's inability to express emotion, particularly love. Most of the horrible stuff that I wrote while I was going to college had to do with this.

A lot of other writers seem to go through the same obsession. Like in Paul Auster's New York Trilogy or Grant Morrison's comic, The Invisibles or in most of Jack O'Connell's novels.

I posted these two paragraphs from O'Connell's Words Made Flesh on my livejournal on January 21, 2004:

"Brockden picked up his skiving knives and hacked his family into scrap because, in struggling to receive the divine alphabet, he came to understand the profound ineptitude of the system called language. He came to understand how this inherent, unchangeable deficiency defines each of use, traps us, imprisons us, finally reduces us to a state of absolute isolation. Keeps us forever, uniquely, agonizingly, alone. In Brockden's heart, the slaughter was likely an act of mercy.

"Brockden carved his wife and children into nothingness because he could no longer speak to them. And because he came to know, with instantaneous certainty, that this kind of silence, when descends and becomes a shroud, a cocoon that smothers every sense, is an entombment from which no one will ever awake and arise."

I know there are a lot of other writers with this obsession. I can't remember them though.

I did an interview with kek. Thanks, kek!

I like to put things like this on the bottom of my posts because I don't want to turn into one of those writers with a blog who only posts links to reviews of their work, new online stories, interviews, and announcements of new books, stories in print, and live appearances. Those blogs are dull.