From “Postcards from James Joyce to His Brother Stan,” by Martin Bihl:

March 10, 1922


Met some fat American today. Wants to be a writer. Wants to take me hunting. Put his gun in my hands. At least, I think it was his gun.


P.S. Still blind.

From The Scum Also Rises (an excerpt), by Kurt Luchs:

Brad sat in the only café in the little Spanish town and drank a bottle of the local wine. He did this by pouring the wine into a soiled piece of gauze and wringing out the bandage over his face, catching the drops with his tongue as they fell. The gauze had been with him in the War. It was all he had left. That and some chewing tobacco.

“This is a good café,” he said in English to the waiter, “and good wine, and I am a very good boy.” The waiter smiled that childlike Spanish smile and emptied a pot of coffee into Brad’s lap.

I keep forgetting to link to Steven Carter‘s “How to Write a First Novel.” (Most recently seen at Bookslut.)

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