'On her mangledness I am spreading my amorous sheets, but who will have any pride in the wedding red, seeping up between the thighs of love which rise like a colossus, but whose issue is only the cold semen of grief'
'I am overun, jungled in my bed, I am infested with a menagerie of desires; my heart is eaten by a dove,a cat scrambles in the cave of my sex, hounds in my head obey a whipmaster who cries nothing but havoc as the hours test my endurance with an accumulation of tortures. Who, if I cried, would hear me amongs the angelic orders?'
This is a masterpiece, a cult literary classic? Some of the images taken separately are amazing but altogether, page after page of this sort of prose is just too much to bear. it alienates instead of inspiring pity.
I have to confess to a dislike of so called 'stream of consciousness' style novels. I recently read - because required to for study, not by choice - William Faulkner's As I lay Dying. I utterly disliked that book, disliked the characters, the setting, the whole point of the tale and the pretentiousness of those who felt it to be an epic odyssey of some sort. As far as I was concerned, it was dreary, holding out little hope, joy or meaning. Yet, as some wit pointed out, 'you may hate the book or love it, but you'll never forget it.' So true, because I haven't. I class By Grand Central Station as one of those types of books that annoys you but makes you wonder, think, query, consider and oddly, in the end, even begin to understand.
|George Grenville Barker|
Barker was indeed gifted but vain and convinced of his own genius, a genius not to be wasted in wars and fighting. Thus he managed to escape