rommy

Excerpt

In a Lonely Place - Dorothy B. Hughes #books #literature #noir

Robert Creeley’s poem The Invoice

Robert Creeley #poetry

Death in Midsummer by Yukio Mishima

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O’Connor

The Simple Art of Murder by Raymond Chandler

2025 in books so far

#books #reading #shortstories

A photo of Raymond Chandler’s The Lady in the Lake at Last Drop Tavern in San Francisco

It was an affair of fat green kidneys laid down on an egg yolk background.

Raymond Chandler
The Lady in the Lake
#literature #raymondchandler #books

A photo of the cover of Raymond Chandler’s The Lady in the Lake on the subway

I miss reading on the NYC subway

#reading #literature #raymondchandler #noir #hardboiled

I wish I were old enough to know what it would’ve been like to make out to Spandau Ballet’s True in the bucket seats of my 1986 Datsun.

A photo of Charles Simic’s poem A Wedding in Hell

A Wedding in Hell - Charles Simic
#poetry #writing

John Cheever’s writing reminds me so much of Carson McCullers’ writing. Oof.

It was a harsh and an ugly light, stretched like some upholstery webbing beneath the damask of the year.

John Cheever
The Wapshot Scandal
#literature #writing #books

He felt uncommonly happy in this sparsely populated place; felt some marked loosening of his discontents.

John Cheever
The Wapshot Scandal
#literature #writing #books

The cover of John Cheever’s The Wapshot Scandal and a rye old-fashioned

#currentlyreading #johncheever #literature

A kids jeep ride missing a wheel

This can’t be street legal

Happy birthday, Miss Nina Simone

6am on a Monday in an Uber to JFK and my dude is blasting Tina Turner and Gloria Gaynor and I could never hate on it. He’s fiercely catapulting me into the week.

The tiny flame of the lighter flickered between us, as perishable as the atmosphere which our exaggerated politeness had created. The merest breath would have extinguished the one, the least incautious gesture or word would have destroyed the other.

Christopher Isherwood
The Last of Mr. Norris

Once again the air reeks of microwaved popcorn. Once again I am only who I am.

George Saunders
Offloading for Mrs. Schwartz

You call it nostr
I call it bitcoin forum

A poem by Gerard Malanga called “paris to new york non stop”

Gerard Malanga

The irony that the screening of American Fiction I attended last night consisted of an audience almost entirely made up of white folks on MLK Jr. day is not lost on me.

If you get the message, hang up the phone. For psychedelic drugs are simply instruments, like microscopes, telescopes, and telephones. The biologist does not sit with eye permanently glued to the microscope, he goes away and works on what he has seen.

Alan Watts

It seemed to him the room of an inhibited bachelor. It was dimly horrifying, like timid secret desires for unattainable intimacies.

Graham Greene
The Confidential Agent

Anxious Corridor
Kansuke Yamamoto
1940

America Lost Its One Perfect Tree Lumber, shelter, delicious nuts—there was nothing the American chestnut couldn’t provide.

www.theatlantic.com/science/arch...

I always assumed that the term commiserate had an element of misery associated with it. To experience misery with someone else.

Com-miser-ate. No?

Alas, it just means to sympathize with someone according to the internet.

This whole trend of Brooklyn bodegas turning into unsanctioned weed shops is disappointing my BEC and chopped cheese cravings. The weed shop that sells chopped cheeses would make an absolute killing.

He was no longer interested in his own psychology. He dreamed of lecture-rooms, his wife, sometimes of food and wine, very often of flowers.

Graham Greene
The Confidential Agent

@mattzollerseitz.bsky.social Hey Matt! Hope u check Bsky. So I’m watching Mad Men and reading your book. In your chapter on Season 1 Episode 10, you make no mention whatsoever about the casting call, the twins, and Roger Sterling’s heart attack and I’m so utterly confused! It was 1/3 of the episode!

the wasted profession by Charles Bukowski all the words, you know, it's hard to tell if you're truly on course or on some vanity trip: how much can be said, how much has already been said, and why? other writers' words do me little good, then, why should mine be special? all my words... do they create laughter through the flame? the same poets reading over and over again in the same venues; I am embarrassed for them and for myself: do we really think that we are fashioning speech more unusual than a stock market or weather report? all the words—we type away-on and on—most of us living lives ordinary and without courage are we sick to think that our speech is exceptional? I don't like us and I never did —is there anything worse than a creature who lives only to write poetry?

Charles Bukowski - The Wasted Profession

The Boy and the Heron was as solid as we can expect from any Miyazaki film, but while there were moments of magic, it failed to completely awe me in a way I’ve come to expect from him. And that’s fine I guess. Perhaps what disappointed me the most was Joe Hisaishi’s score this time around.