Originally posted at: Jacob Russell's Barking Dog
tags: journals, literature, memory,Vol. 44:
Friday
1/11/08
After 5576 pages (since 1987… earlier volumes destroyed), nothing could be clearer. My journal in no way aspires to “literature.” And never has. Another enterprise. As though the words come from different universes.
To be sure, there are moments--caught up in passing enthusiasms--whole volumes when plain insanity has worn the mask of “art” --but day after day, page after page, what I’ve compiled is nothing more (or less) than a verbal equivalent of the middlebrow albums of snapshots my family used to keep.
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