Woe Was Wedneday

 We finished work early, again. My bank account may like it, but my other work liked it.

I walked over to the sheriff's without blowing my knee and in time to catch the 1 pm bus back from there. 

That put me back here around 2 pm. I called about my doctor for the second time yesterday. No call back.

I went to work on “The Dead and Dying”. I found my reworking the opening of “The Sloe Gin Effect”. I think that improved the story. I skimmed over it and had to wonder if my I dreamed my early edits. I find myself adding to “Theresa Pressley”, which is acting now as a thread story. Some additions are because it is now being threaded around the other stories and also due to seeing places that need shoring up. I talked to KH about this yesterday. At least he did not say I was nuts.

My niece said she would call last night. She did not. This I am used to - being talked to only when I am useful.

I downloaded more music. Enough to crash my browser.

A rejection which does not shock:

We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but unfortunately "Second Chances, Last Chances" was not a right fit for Hudson Review.

Thank you for trying us.

Sincerely,

The Editors of Hudson Review

 This is my story about depression and an attempted suicide. Not a very upbeat story.

I omitted this report last night, Instead, I finished read Roberto Bolano's The Spirit of Science Fiction (1984). I am embarrassed to report how long it took me to read this short novel. Which I did like — I found its tone wistful, its chapters of letters written to American science fiction writers trying to get to stop North America from warring on Latin America amusing, charming. I understand it was written in 1984, published after Bolano's death, and is probably not a major work. The Guardian review reads in part:

The Spirit of Science Fiction is one of Bolaño’s earliest books, written in 1984. Whereas other early novels – Woes of the True Policeman, Monsieur Pain and The Skating Rink – point towards the genre-bending plasticity of 2666, The Spirit of Science Fiction is clearly a rehearsal for the Beat-ish Künstlerroman of The Savage Detectives. It tells the story of two young, aspiring authors in Mexico City, Jan and Remo, the former a near-hermit who writes letters to the leading science-fiction authors of his day, the latter a garrulous boy on the make in a city mad about poetry. The passages about the boys and their glamorous friend José Arco are intercut with a long, dreary interview in which a successful author recounts his time at “The Potato Academy” and a series of bizarre and increasingly tedious dreams.

It’s easy to see why this novel was never published in Bolaño’s lifetime. It’s a rambling, dispiriting mess, symptomatic of the way publishers have dredged up substandard work from this great writer’s past in the hope that it might catch some of the reflected glory of his two great novels. Let us hope The Spirit of Science Fiction is the last of these tawdry outtakes that can only serve to diminish the legacy of one of the most remarkable literary voices of the past 50 years.

Some other readings from the past two days:

 What Should Be the Goal of U.S. Industrial Strategy? 

 Betting on ‘The Farm’: Hemingway and Miró

I need to see the attorney today about dad's trust. The plan is to spend the night, again, with “The Dead and the Dying”. Work beckons.

sch