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My books can be purchased as e-books for only $1.99. If interested, just click here: Books.
Match Play is a golf/suspense novel. Dust of Autumn is a bloody one set in upstate New York. Prairie View is set in South Dakota, with a final scene atop Rattlesnake Butte. Life in the Arbor is a children's book about Rollie Rabbit and his friends (on about a fourth grade level). The Black Widow involves an elaborate extortion scheme. Doggy-Dog World is my memoir. And ES3 is a description of my method for examining English sentence structure.
In case anyone is interested in any of my past posts, an archive list can be found at the bottom of this page.
My newest novel, Happy Valley, can be found here.

Sunday, March 30

J. Alfred Prufrock

T. S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock laments his becoming an old man, with a bald spot in the middle of his hair, with the bottoms of his trousers rolled, measuring out his life with coffee spoons. He describes “the Eternal Footman” holding his coat and snickering. He hears the mermaids singing to him until “human voices wake us and we drown.” What a neat paradox that is, both an awakening and a drowning. Measuring out his life with coffee spoons. One would have thought Eliot would have him measuring it out with tea spoons. More British, you know. In recent years I’ve been measuring out my life with equally mundane items. Every three weeks I sit down at the dining room table and measure out my life by re-filling my three weekly vitamin holders. Every three weeks. And it seems like I’m doing that ritual far more often than every three weeks. More related measuring sticks: the number of prescriptions that need constantly to be re-filled, the number of doctor and dentist appointments that fill my calendar, the increasing number of obituaries for old friends and relatives. I’m sounding morbid, I know, but that’s the nature of growing old, morbid thoughts while waiting for that Eternal Footman to take me by the hand. Dylan Thomas exhorts us to “not go gentle into that good night,” to “rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Emily Dickinson said that death was the “supple suitor” who woos us with pallid innuendoes and then whisks us away in a “bisected Coach,” leaving behind “Kindred as responsive as Porcelain.” In June we’re flying to South Dakota for my brother’s memorial service, and I’ll be one of those Porcelain Kindred, the last of my family still standing. I’m not looking forward to it.

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