This book has no more entries published after this entry.
This author has no more entries published after this entry.

The inscription in These titles mean nothing.

  • March 25, 2026, 3:26 a.m.
  • |
  • Public

It’s just a little book, a Penguin paperback, slim and unassuming.
But inside the second page, facing the title and author’s name - Edna O’Brien, Some Irish Loving, in a strong male hand, the inscription:

17-Mar-83
Torremolinos, Spain

Happy Birthday
Darling, and many more
with all love,
Albert

Have you ever inscribed a gift book?
Have you ever received one?

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,.........................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

I’m spending time with David Foster Wallace. He has many interviews on YouTube.
He wrote big books. He killed himself at age 46.

I have a weighty paperback of Infinite Jest. I read some today. He writes well. He should have lived longer.

You can listen to a story, perhaps read by the author, called “The View from Mrs, Thompsons’“. It’s an account of September 11, 2001, experienced in a Midwestern living room. Made me remember the day at work. The same glorious weather. The same shock.

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,..................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Diesel fuel is up - a dollar more more a gallon. Jim buys 3000 or so gallons a year for the tractors and the combine, perhaps the lawn mower, the skid loader. He has some put in the tank tank at his landlord’s place too, so he can use it there if he needs it, and for the landlord to use it in his sweet little John Deere utility tractor/mower.

Let’s hope the war is over soon.


Last updated 14 hours ago


Loading comments...

You must be logged in to comment. Please sign in or join Prosebox to leave a comment.