I didn’t spend no time in the Northeast, and I didn’t write no book every year long after I run out of things to say, and I know about as much about suburban boredom and filling those empty hours a man might call a life with fruitless sex with my neighbors as Mr. Updike knows about choke-holds and nightsticks, but I tell you this:
You aren’t likely to find somebody besides me, now that Mr. Updike’s gone to whatever his reward might resemble, that is more convinced the world ceases to be when he closes his eyes.
Or that writes shittier prose about sex. Try this here on for size:
They struggled and foundered together on the bank, like a couple of fledgling ducks hatched too soon, both of them slicked with their own and the others’ secretions, panting like gladiatorial zebras in estrus, unsure whether their next coming together would be to fight or fuck.
Tell me I’m wrong.
