So go read his work.īut if you already have and are curious about this new book.
And our time on earth, mythological characters or not, is short. It was a little boat, harbored within a rocky cave, the very one that Wordsworth rowed in “The Prelude.” There was just time enough, before she stepped back into her painting, for her to kiss the baby and name Gertrude Stein his godmother. Coming, she cried out, Ceci n’est pas une pipe! Some months after, while in a boat, she went into labor. One of the Demoiselles d’Avignon later happened along, picked up that shell, and used it as a vibrator. Once upon a time, Walt Whitman yawped his semen into a conch shell… Out upon your guarded lips! Sew them up with pockthread, do-ĭear, anxious-looking taller woman whose t-shirt says “Insouciance by any other means…”: I wish you would turn around in your seat to let me see the punchline. Young, Dean-ĭear people who ♥ consistency. I can see that, though fictional you be, you’d be very interested in Mr. Dear twelve undergraduates assigned to read this text and in search of a digestible synopsis-ĭear two lit-crit geeks up late at night who found this by googling John Barth-ĭear three writers of well-written poems who care very much about your craft (Apologies, but I think the only craft we’ll be talking about here is a ship)-ĭear Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.