Ziggurat, Ziggurat, Zat, Zat, Zat

+ A + B + C + D + E + F + G + H + I + J + K + L + M + N + O + P + Q + R + S + T + U + V + W + X + Y + Z+

Considering Ron Silliman’s The Alphabet: “Zyxt”


               “Thus an abrupt”




               Interrupt, the construct, destruct




               Thus it goes
               Up until 2 am, I am relieved, until the realization of Daylight Savings Time means it’s 3 am to me




               “Faces phase into vases, an illusion of space fills in at the margin, merges an urge to turn (the line loops in on itself”
               A famous optical illusion transformed into a verbal one, the series of nearly identical words)
               “The French aversion”
               “The merchant of images forgets”




               “Tooth’s roots understood as its fingers clawing into the jaw, soft calcium shale”
               “The eye does not blink but rather this lid forms an architecture”
               Parts of the body, explained piece by piece, developing, slowly, a whole

               “How can a painter sketch that blue, this grey, veined with the limbs of a thousand bare trees (ulcerated cherry) when I can’t remember even to include every word[?]”
               The painter paints not a perfect structure but an imagination; the poet concerned, instead, with following the pattern of language, playing against its required structure—a word missing is a sentence destroyed




               “Look out the window to see if it’s snowed”
               “Or your weight in the bed next to me”
               The night so dark I cannot see my dreams




               “Neuroptera in flight, listening to children negotiate which game to play, domed theater, lost along the Schuylkill (which only Philadelphians know how to pronounce”
               except that others know how to say “Skookle,” though if it were a river or creek in New York, we’d call it the “sky’ll kill”)




               “Johnnie Cochran holding aloft the long cigar before Miss Lewinsky”
               Conflating events, a study of memory, how we remember what we remember, not what happened or sequence as meaning
               “Then turning to the entire Senate, shouting”
               “If it does not fit”
               “You must acquit”




               “Our yurt”

               Our tukul




               “The security badge of Dorian Gray”
               “Ketchup or catsup”
               Catchup for me




               “Position of glass amid papers on the podium, book too big to fit comfortably in one’s lap”
               Book too big to fit comfortably in a head, words tumbling out the ears
               “I’m here to save the day, Mighty Mouse is on the way”




               “Fiction: that Europe & Asia are separate continents (vague uneasiness as to location of the ‘Middle’ East”
               Geography is politics, on the ground or the map




               “Understand the cloud”




               “Forget the earth”




               “Dreams in which I not only see and hear but feel and smell – the way your anus clings when I enter”
               When I pull my cock out of you, the little snap of the sphincter back tight, my cock occasionally covered with streaks of feces—it doesn’t matter, the body accepts the body




               “Smudge of the lens gives each word an ethereal quality”
               Indistinct words seem poetic
               “Lower limits of the high end”
               Upper limits of the music




               “Foot in the airplane aisle at great risk”
               The man beside me, his knees resting against the seatback




               Rising up over the end of fall, I see the red humps (the Twin Bridges) of the Tadeusz Kosciuszko Bridge over the Mohawk, French curves of water everywhere
               “To confuse dream with sleep, this image (the full moon literally crumbling in the sky) with the real (first concussion knocks us down) is to wake sweating, in full terror”




               “Albany (Albanians)”
               A building laid out in arms, in a K, near seven baseball daimonds and an inescapable confusion of cul-de-sacs




               “Later, sentences to sort into order”
               Sense designed by structure, aligned to sound
               “ear always means what it hears”




               “What I notice, my cock slipping into your mouth, is not (at least immediately) the physical sensation, but rather your freckles, your startling eyes wide open”
               The eyes are more about sex than the cunt each tries to be




               A web of ski trails crisscrossing one face of a mountain and filled with snow where otherwise on the mountain there is none




               “Freud’s garden:”
               “Case studies in wisteria”
               Suburban hysteria: panic in the face of nothing




               “My own handwriting, larger and more crude than I’d remembered”
               My handwriting varying with purpose in size and shape and neatness
               The language of the hand




               An awkwardness to the word awkwardness that seems suitable
               “An intolerable sadness”
               “Short definition of history”




               “One less than forever”
               A minute beyond never




               “The eros of adrenalin[e] and vice versa”
               The heart will race until it fails, sooner than later




               “Eight months may yield only a handful of pages but just possibly the right ones”
               Seventy-one days to write these words, hundreds of pages within hundreds of pages of other words, and I guess not at their suitability—they live for themselves.




               “Cut strawberry stain upon the napkin, image of the tiniest kiss”
               Or the scent of it: the simplest perfume, a whiff of beauty




               “The cross on that ‘t’ looks like a nun’s wimple”
               “A pest of poetry”
               In the first case, there was no sound except for the dishwasher running, not silently but in the direction of silence, except that there was the sound of his typing, and the sound of sleeping dogs breathing (though low and alternating), and a ringing in his ears, and the noise of his thinking




               “First bought, best bought (liar’s remorse)”
               When Allen Ginsburg was young, he always bought the first thing he saw for sale in a store




like a typo but is not
               Misaligned, maligned, malingering on the side




               “‘W’ conceived as a vowel”
               As a president, he did more damage




               “Performative, such as Scalapino’s use of the verb as”
               Extended, such as Silliman’s use of words as paint




               “His/her face in profile, lips about the cock (just the tip of it), liquid spilling”
               On her knees, facing the crotch, the tenderness/urgency of her mouth and tongue
               “Sleep, an emotion”
               I am emotionless




               “Even with this pocket computer, I still carry a pen wherever I go, even tho the notebook in my back pocket long ago dissolved into scraps and wood pulp”
               The world holds multiple means for the word: the phone as notebook, the notebook as notebook, the recorded note, the message repeated over and over again in my head so I will not forget it, but I always forget it
               “The ink at first glistens shining for a second before it settles into the page’s grain, hardening into words”
               The computer screen hums itself away, later just sitting there as it takes whatever I give it




               “Penetration then – one squirms, naked on one’s belly, while the other (above) pushes in”
               Or from the side, hand on the hip, hand on the shoulder, moving her around his cock




               “In the next room, I hear the sound of her urine”
               The most intimate sound




               I close my eyes as I search for my pencil, this pencil I write with on page 974, under my seat on the airplane
               “The words dissolve from our memory / imagination almost as fast as we read them – they leave no echo or shadow (syntax an attempt to compromise the present) – those other sentences, they never existed (except when they do)”




               “An email after 20 years and you find yourself right back in the thick of it, the expression, the positions, the body as in fact it must no longer be (does the spine still arch at the instant of orgasm
               Traveling a few years ago, I found myself in an airport, I remember it well, where the gate was, one of those ground-floor gates that require you to walk out onto the tarmac, but I’m not sure of the airport, not sure even though I was in it again, at the same gate (at least so it seemed) sometime this year, but all airports are the same airport to me, and I recalled this space only because I sat there with a talkative woman, who had been talking to me, but she started talking to the old woman on the other side of me, a woman who was confused but not being helped by the airline staff, and the situation was loud, so I looked forward and I saw my old college girlfriend, or someone who looked quite like her, standing in line to board the plane, a plane heading to Nashville, the city I am sometimes from, the city where our university was, and I stood up, briefly blocking the noisy conversation surrounding me, and walked towards that woman to determine if she was indeed my old girlfriend, and I thought she was, but I wasn’t sure, so I stood there, maybe six feet from her, seeing if she might simply look my way and maybe recognize me even with so much of my hair gone, but she never looked, she simply boarded the plane, never realizing I (even as an abstract concept of a stranger in an airport) had ever existed there beside her




               “Trust is negotiated with the reader, expectations proposed and revised until what is arrived at becomes the statement of work”
               There is no trust but that that the reader brings to the text; the author is unfaithful to everyone, the only faith being enshrined in the word




               “Leverage your metadata (chains in the K cloud, echoes of the Dublin core)
               Interesting to see a reference to “Dublin Core” (never “the,” in my experience) in a poems—named after the site of its creation (Dublin, Ohio—the romance of the name suddenly stripped away), Dublin Core is a set of guidelines for the production of basic metadata to identify a digital object, and it used extensively by archivists
               What, I wonder, would most readers make of this reference to both metadata and a metadata standard?
               Where has the author produced trust?
               Surprise is a better goal for writing than is trust
               “In walks a man holding an ocarina”
               Eight holes in the hard little bubble, just enough to ensure its name




               “A 747 is one million parts flying in close formation”
               Every human being is a billion billion parts moving together as one





               “Clearing my desk I find a note in my own handwriting on a scrap of line paper, a name – Floryshak – and a phone number with no area code, but I have no memory of having written this not, nor of placing it here amidst these books and papers, nor of this person”
               The human mind is a set of limitations, most designed to limit itself
               “Quilted cover shrouds the grand piano”
               Sounds like an experiment in collective autobiography




               “I’m interested less in the paperless office than in officeless paper”
               I am as well, but I recall (always) with the mention of the paperless office of that one image in The Myth of the Paperless Office, where the only office able to keep its operations paperless did so by producing no paper itself and scanning all incoming paper, shredding it before disposing it via transparent tubes that passed through the floors of the building so that the workers could see the system excreting the paper it no longer needed, paper in this case analogous to feces




               “Read a little, sleep a little, read some more”
               Paradise, rolling a seven




               “My tongue and teeth on the inmost part of the thigh”
               The tenderest of lickings for the tenderest of places




               “Slowly the anus releases, sucking the finger in”
               Or the slight pop when pulling the penis out




               “Exit strategy (Lyn, I’ve read your work so often while in flight that flight itself has become a condition of the work) – the flight attendant draws the blue curtain across the aisle, cutting off our view of First Class”
               I find it difficult to fly over a set of clouds and not remember my first flight over the Atlantic, at the age of six, how I woke up above a sea of clouds and thought they were icebergs floating on the north Atlantic




               “Books lie in a half-filled case”
               People lie in a half-completed life (no bookcase can have any empty space)




               “Middlebrow profundity, perfect for PBS”
               I cannot take middlebrow art (like mystery novels), finding them uncompelling as works of thought or expression (low and high art cover those realms)




               “Bright pink against a deep sky blue, the letters, thick, san[s] serif, tightly spaced, shimmer”
               Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans serif




               “Terse Verse”
               Averse Curse




               “What is sadder than the small book of well-wrought poems, none spilling over to the next page even, each pretending to its own completeness”
               Size matters, but size does not define completeness; what the small poem loses in heft it makes up for in responsibility




               I recall reading this section online in Drunken Boat and describing it as “muscular”
               “Giant framed photograph, color closeup of anal penetration, the male cock [the female one, the clitoris?] marbleized by arousal & effort, the female genitalia similarly flushed red, blossoming, but still as if unmoved, untouched by all that nearby force, skin everywhere gleaming as tho oiled, light banishes all shadow, hung so primly against al that white space directly over the young lady art dealer’s desk…”




               “Para (graph, site, normal)”
               Meta (phore, fiction, data)




               “Your sunburned genitalia”
               My sunburned head




               “If you pay attention you will recognize the ph [for pH] balance of your stomach
               An ecstasy that never quite arrives
               The promise of life




               “Hair as the margin of nature on the edge of the otherwise cultivated body”
               To remove the hidden hair on a woman and reveal her totally domesticated, irretrievably wild




               “Forced to write more slowly, pocket computer’s tiny keyboard touch-typed by thumb, sentences unfurl differently”
               Every tool we use controls us, our imagination, our creations




               “Anal masturbation”
               Eyes tired from too much seeing




               “As time passes, birds in the text become more specific”
               The writing itself takes on a different character by becoming increasingly itself, until there is no difference between expectation and presentation




               “Paradachshund”
               I printed an issue of The Subtle Journal of Raw Coinage with “Paradachshund” as its subtitle, being the owner of multiple dachshunds




               “God is the word humans coined to articulate a great desire”
               “Age beyond which each person’s gait becomes visibly asymmetrical”
               The word for dexterity in any other language means skill




               “For awhile [for a while] there were no young poets, then they were everywhere, huge flocks of them in the air at once, crowding out the sun, then just as suddenly it’s still again, but for one dove, cooing along in the dusk”
               Poets are the passenger pigeon of the literary artists




               “A bee repeatedly beats against the glass”
               The afternoon darkened by a termite storm, a trillion insects in flight, banging against the sliding doors, the jalousies, finding a way into the house, where our cat Chirp eats as many as he can until he is full of termites, and they still come
               “Soft core: she grips the cock in one hand, a think strand of fluid strung between its tip and her lip”
               His lip from the tip of her tit to her clit




               “Silliman’s filament”
               Sillimanipuated




               “All that remains of the mealis [for meal is] the stain of egg upon the plate, the little cup of sour cream to one side”
               The human stain: semen, blood, thought
               “Mouse or moose, which one”
               Mousse




               More green to the autumnal woods, the world is golf course and segregated systems of cul-de-sacs
               No way out




               Autumn ochre
               Landing in Dulles
               “X of eczema”
               “Of being timorous”
               I see an Oppening




               “Passionate knishes”
               “White butterfly settles into the flowers and disappears”
               Flight attendant upon landing: “Thank you and have a sweet day.”




               “The smart card’s striped bar chirps under the eye of the reader (time it takes for this sentence to [become] obsolete & opaque)”
               All language, lenguage, tends towards chaos




               “The chartreuse moose loved couscous”
               Our prairie dog’s name was Couscous, and we had a hard time distinguishing him from the fat groundhogs that lived in our alley




               “Beautiful black full-length dress, yellow flower print upon satin, hanging in dusk breeze from a trimaran docketed [for docked] next to the boat-builder’s shop, Port Hadlock, Washington, across the street from a row of small pastel summer cabins & the restaurant where everybody eating is asked to wear funny hats, the sun setting pink-orange into the Straight [for Strait] of San Juan de Fuca, half-dozen sailboats anchored in the water, when up drives here crème-colored beemer [for Beemer], a convertible no less, and she steps out in pink halter and white cut-offs, taking the hanger with the dress in one hand as she climbs aboard the craft & disappears below”
               Revenue stream vs revenue river




               “Geography is destiny (7:21 AM, 7 August 2000)”
               “Typography is litany (12:11 AM, 19 November 2008)”




               “Bee climbs up into the fuchsia”
               The perfume of the woman next to me on the plane




               “Bataille for babies”
               All those eyes and eggs and tits
               The Battle of Bataille




               “First bought, best bought”                (without “liar’s remorse” this time)
               At the end of high school, I read all of Tennessee Williams’ fiction and autobiography, discovering that he reused items from his autobiography in his fiction, as if he had never written those stories down before—that is the trouble of writing too much: you can never be sure you are saying something you have not said before




               “Even before it gets to you, the poem is deja toujour [for déjà toujours] a collaboration”
               Even this poem I am writing, an autobiography of a response to another poem, is a collaboration, but the process is more obvious in this case




               “Is that going to be in a poem”
               Friends and family want to know
               On a CRJ 700, a small plane for such a long flight




               “Geography is density (5:48 AM, 6 September 2000)”
               Geophagy is dentistry (12:18 AM, 19 November 2008




               “The poem has scalability”
               Is there a truly scalable poem? one that can be resized for different situations? one that can be excerpted without damage? glossed without loss?




               “The urinary habits of Dr. Filreis.”
               Occasionally, periods appear at the end of his sentences, but they appear not to be intended




               “Martianlization of genius”
               Martilization of poetry
               Marginalization of poets




               “Oreo aria”
               Repeat here a story about Tennessee Williams




               “Sentences to go before I sleep”
               Miles to type before I creep




               “First wipe, best wipe”
               But there are never enough wipes for a man whose anal hair catches all shit




               “Pages dwindle toward the end of Collected Works”
               My marginal notes dwindle near the end of The Alphabet
               “Road rouge”
               Rogue raids




               “Obvious typo long into the text & thus you will no longer quote trust that these are the real words”
               No text can be trusted, and there are no real words, there is not true sequence of words; every text falls apart under the weight of its own unsupportable structures, the aporia mark the spots, some aporia are typographical errors




               Topographical errors




               Topographical eras




               “The joy of 6”
               “6” = “sex” in German
               “Poetry is self-inflicted”
               Then they fuck the wounds




               “Objects in mirror are stranger than they appear”
               “Objects in sentence are stronger than they appear”




               “The secret to being naked in public is [to] recognize that your flesh is itself a suite of clothes”
               Former, for me




               “A very large poem of very few words”
               Better is a very small poem of very many meanings
               “I thought for awhile [for a while] that your demons might tame my own”
               “Dying, the moth unable to fly”
               We are, most of us, moths




               “At times the weight of this pen is so heavy”
               The keys beneath my fingers pull me back down
               “The voyeurism of house sitting”
               Once, we were at Toby Wolff’s house when friends of ours were housesitting for him, so we examined his books to read the inscriptions authors had left for him there




               “We hear the butterfly beating its wings”
               We, the moths, are silent




               “Page turns in book, words never to be read for the first time again”
               Tennessee Williams




               “Memory of lovemaking with one now dead”
               Most of the dead who litter are memory wander the earth, never to find us again
               “That space between words is a chasm”
               In Nancy’s high school a girl with large breasts had the nickname Tennessee Tits (after her resemblance, in profile, to Dolly Parton), and the large rock on the way out of town and to Caroga Lake and painted with the word “TENNESSEE” was a coded reminder to her of her name, and of the boys’ obsession with that part of her body




               “Mnemonic plague”
               Pneumatic plaque




               “Moment at which 30 percent of the worlds copper comes from Butte & the Anaconda mine”
               We spent a night sleeping in a tent just outside of Anaconda one year, at the foot of a mountain that was home to mountain goats, but we never saw one, our night sleeping on gravel paid back to us with disappointment
               “The clams commitment to adhere to the rock”
               Clams dig into sand; they don’t adhere




               “The fuselage dissolves through the liquid surface of the tower’s plate glass façade, illusion that lingers for an interminable fraction of a second before the bright burst of fire blooms, booms”
               His last use of “façade” appeared without a cedilla (as “facade”), so he must be accepting the autocorrection made by Word
               Everything is aporia




               “Potemkin Village of the heart (precisely the sort of hokey metaphor you would expect from these pale faceless poets”
               whose bookshelves are Potemkin villages that pretend to hold poetry they read




               “Write each letter from the end to the beginning”
               Beside which I’ve written a twisted two-storey g




               “Moment at which you not only are aware of the hair in your noise [for nose], but have the irresistible to pull it”
               The repercussions here can include an ingrown hair, a painful pimple, the squirting of pus
               “Wire mall kiosk of miniature license plates of every possible names by yours”
               “Of course not: I’ve never found mine in such a display”
               “Self[-]portrait with a convex lock”
               If it serves as a mirror, it will do




               “Don’t confuse the poem with the text (you’re next)”
               Because the poem is also the invisible force on the reader




               “So few people know how to give a blow job without scraping the invading cock against the teeth”
               But, for those who do, the cock salutes
               “Little theaters of the footnote”
               Meanings too small to ignore




               “Instantly you recognize the dog’s bark as unfamiliar”
               Tennessee




               “A think [for thin?] book makes thick trouble”
               “Goodnight baseball, goodnight rune”
               Goodnight poem who writes only with rune




               “You open the door to find behind it a naked woman fresh from a hot bath who embraces you”
               A type of birthday present for those who wear suits




               “All this prose makes one anxious for linebreaks”
               Linebreaks make most anxious for car chases
               “Old blind dog’s heavy breathing as it sleeps”
               Tenn.
               “Letters glisten in the sun until the ink sets, last drops shining at the tip of every letter”
               TN
               “Silence of the loins”
               “Sirloins of the springs”
               “Uses his boarding pass as a bookmark”
               I am doing so right now, on page 1029




               “I rose at dawn to write these words, going from bed to verse”
               I stayed awake far past midnight, hoping not to go from verse to bath without even a bed




               “A cluster of bright orange mushrooms atop the old stump, one atop another, each the size of a man’s hand, the tops not cupped by [for but] turned upward as if to catch the intermittent rain”
               “A cheese the flavor of horse radish [for horseradish]”
               “A wooden platform wedged into the oak tree’s crotch in lieu of a tree house”
               Tennishoe
               “Lists of my life”
               His book, of lists of sentences




               “Arches his back before he farts”
               I just did so, unnoticed, in Seat 5D




               “Theory of boundary”
               The only boundaries are between the body and space
               “Voices from the next cabin”
               This plane too small for cabins, no curtains and incomplete walls between us and the eight seats in first class




               “Women only become beautiful in middle age”
               Women become beautiful only in middle age
               “Knot gneiss”
               Mien
               “A note obviously in my hand that I have no memory of writing”
               A repeat without the original’s detail
               “The pathology of biographers”
               The psychopathology of readers of biographies




               “A think [the spelling must be intentional] book made thick through bad page design”
               A virtual repeat
               “The slenderness of wasps”
               The sudden ferocity of their stings
               “Any text is a time capsule”
               And everything decays
               “Flabby as the meters of the bard of Bromsgrove (the line imagined as two men struggling to life [for lift] a couch up into the rear of a small truck”
               The woman beside me chewing the nails of her left hand just like Nancy while she reads Angela’s Ashes




               “We are eating baked bat, served whole, in which you only eat the wing rather the way one does an artichoke leaf, pulling the mean [for meat] away from the slender bone . . .”
               “The individual lines of this short poem seem not so much long as fat”
               Fat with meaning is best




               “Miscarried at 18 weeks, deeply deformed, buried in a recipe box, wrapped in a handkerchief, Solomon Silliman”
               My father’s only sibling, Mary Ann Huth, died stillborn, her umbilical cord around her neck, buried without a name
               “The violence of rhyme”
               Or of meter (worse as metre)
               “Where fire flies [for fireflies] disappear to in sunlight”
               Moths fade into the background
               “The look in her eyes of discomfort when he pushes in”
               The look in his eyes of relief
               “Can poetry mutter”
               If Dana Gioia has any say in it, it does




               “Hitchhiker’s guide to the fallacy”
               “Hitchhiker’s guide to the phallusy”




               “The problem with mugs invariably is [for are] the handles”
               “Storm petrol’s [for petrel’s] furious flap of wings, like a swallow permanently at sea”
               Not gasoline, but bird.




               “Instead of the escritoire, I set the notebook atop the old utilitarian table”
               I have no desk at home
               “This poem built the way you would a life”
               Slowly and out of order




               “The music I loved in 1984 seems so harsh to me now”
               But I now hear mostly the placidity of punk rock
               “After the fricasseed duck with gnocchi came trout stuffed with spinach and salmon paté, baked in a soft bread crust with a side of hot fennel, car[a]melized & mashed
               “I walk down to the river at dusk, your voice soft over the cell phone, the sun already gone, the dark about to come on, hearing now that distinct mewing sound, tens of thousands of bats swarming out from under the Congress Street Bridge”
               Tomorrow (after two nights’ sleep), I’ll be flying to Austin




               “Penultimate Thule”
               Preantepenultimate Thule
               “You look so much like a previous lover that I know instantly how you will look naked”
               We cannot know this, not even in the absence of scars
               “Godardian in the garden”
               Godardian knot




               “During the solo, the base [for bass] player talks to the drummer”
               “I am the one with the hot sauce”
               I am the one who wants the hot sauce
               “My most Whitmanesque”
               My most ludicresque




               “Even after you extract the tine [for fine] bones of the halibut, you feel the scratches on your gums”
               The tine of the fork used carefully to remove those bones from the flesh
               “Any relationship changes forever the instant genital organs merge”
               The surge




               “811.08 or death”
               Too much poetry to breathe
               So close to the end of the book that I pause to count the remaining pages (6)
               “Of my wife and I [for me] he writes, ‘It’s nice to watch old people being physically affectionate’”




               “I paused in the shadows before I reached the community hot tub to see this couple – I had noticed them earlier on the lawn, sipping wine & talking quietly, their heads so near to another they were almost kissing – not[e] he sits at the tub’s edge as she takes him into her mouth, foam of the tub’s jets met by this second foam as he groans & she coughs, him slipping back into the waters so that the two of them can share a salty kiss”
               That 70s Show




               “Anxiety floods the system with its sour adrenalin[e]”
               “My dick instead of an onion”
               Her cunt instead of a martini




               “The bee gets between meet [for me] & the lens of my glasses
               The Beegees see the bees between the beet and the beast
               “I’m a figment of Jim Behrle’s imagination”
               Behrle lives!
               “Dream states of Texas”
               Just a couple of hours until I am there




               “You’re free to move about the text”
               The captain has just turned off the seatbelt sign for us on this plane




               “If you wrote in Hawai’in [for Hawai’ian, you’d be done by now.”
               If you wrote in Finnish, you would never




               “The angle of my pen as it brushes this page”
               This is what constitutes an ending, closure: periodlessness




               Finished reading this book at 6:43 pm Central Time, 2 November 2008




               I am what I am at 5:15 AM
               and I see the best behinds of my generalization




               Write, he sd
               Read
               First caught, best caught




               When this you see, pee on me
               Finished writing about this book (first draft) at 1:44 am on 19 November 2008, Eastern Standard Time




               Moment at which the book ends

ecr. l’inf.