I have just started reading Immortality by Milan Kundera. I always in awe of anything by him because he touches on themes that are never far from my own thoughts. For example, upon half-awakening in the morning, floating around in the hypnagogic state listening to the radio announcers he finds himself thinking about the fact that Ernest Hemingway was reported to be impotent:

That gets me thinking about that other literary titan, Ernest Hemingway, and the fact that I love the way he put words together. Lately, I have been reminded that I used to be in love with Tennessee Williams. Actually, I still am. I met him once. In an elevator at the University of Florida student union building. More on that in a post yet to come.

So ruminating about my literary heroes, I realize, as I often do, that most are men. But I choose not to care so much about that anymore, although I do agree that the fact that there have been so few females literary titans that I have adored says something about either me, or the culture I grew up in, or both. I put it down mostly to biology. The old-time feminists used to say that biology is not destiny. I beg to differ. But more on that later, or not. (This topic really annoys me.)

I love Iris Murdoch. And recently I became reaquainted with some of Sylvia Plath‘s poetry. I found Plath’s poetry to be very morbid, yet undeniably powerful. I was going to write about her suicide, but I just can’t. It seems too sensationalistic. Iris Murdoch is, to me, a much more interesting writer. Although obviously she is not a poet, and I don’t mean to compare the two since it would be ridiculous to do so. If you a want to get a glimpse of Iris Murdoch as a writer, listen to this wonderful discussion on BBC Radio 4’s “Open Book”.

I challenged myself to just start posting in order to get this website up and running. I want to start publishing chapters of my book here, and so I am building this up as a platform for that.

Feel free to disagree with any of my unpopular, un-politically correct notions.