30 June 2000

Nothing. Nothing’s been hap­pen­ing lately.

Oh, I wrote a three-word short story. This is how it goes:

“Hello! Nice shirt.”

I also did a pome (with mag­netic poetry):

the mis­cre­ant trod ne­far­i­ous ly
with gra­tu­itous temerity
on stal­wart s gild ing brazen ly

My hair is now a little bit red and a little bit purple.

And I’m still studying.

Lately, I’ve been reading ar­ti­cles written by a Theodore Dalrymple. I was very pleased to find this man–he’s both fab­u­lously con­ser­v­a­tive and a won­der­ful writer, a com­bi­na­tion that my authors’ matrix pre­vi­ously lacked. Excitingly, he appears to be against all things liberal or unconventional. He’s not only launched Je­re­mi­ads against transexuals (“Everything Pro­fes­sor Mc­Closkey says [in support] of his sex change could have been said had he been a necrophil­iac instead of a transsexual.”) and drugs (“One of the most strik­ing char­ac­ter­is­tics of drug takers is their intense and tedious self-absorption; and their jour­neys into inner space are gen­er­ally forays into inner vacuums.”), but he also has a go at the tattoo (“The tattoo has a pro­found meaning: the su­per­fi­cial­ity of modern man’s existence.”) and even (!) self-esteem (“Anyone who even asks the ques­tion of whether he has suf­fi­cient self-esteem is, ipso facto, a lost soul.”). What a guy!

You can get more Dal­rym­ple by search­ing the New Criterion, the New Statesman and the City Journal.

One last link: this article, os­ten­si­bly about gooseberries, con­tains an ex­tra­or­di­nar­ily sharp attack on his father. (“Heaven only knows what early wound meant that the tyran­ni­cal dis­com­fi­ture of others should have been balm to his soul …”)