Finished "Porno" by Welsh about a week ago, before that it was his Trainspotting sequel "Glue" and before that "Maribou Stork Nightmares".
I always buy one of his books before a long train journey, for some reason, it makes the trip seem less like a confinement when dealing with his casual atrocities upon the soul.
Before that "Perfume" by Patrick Suskind, before that a Stephen King called "Wizard And Glass", the fourth and largest addition to his ongoing saga of a gunslinger and an incredible post-holocaust future which allows him to detail his obsession with American trash culture whilst drawing infinite scape of possibility with attractive abstract drug-induced possibilities.
It's good shit, man.
I have Solzhenitsyn's "Life Of Denisovich" by the bed which I dip into for kicks and bizarrely "Darcy's Utopia" by Fay Weldon for interesting chats with miss pk.
And I got halfway through "Mad Frank" by the very mad "Frankie" Fraser, former patron of Whitechapel's Blind Beggar and unorthodox dentist.
But I realised he was probably just a surplus cunt, and had nothing but the empty tales of a dull mind, so it's still on the shelf. I might pick it up again.
At the moment I am cross-referencing operational manuals between desktop sound studio software and video production shit, which in a funny way always leads to landscapes new and pastures virile but there's nothing like getting a real
mindset with a book, where you're riding that tale like a wild hoss...
Books are fantastic.
And I must say it was very nice to meet the book people the other night who know who they are.
My problem is I watch too much TV.
(haven't actually read it, but I'm told it's rather ... arousing...)
