Proust

Jeremy, en fuego:

In other words, I know I’ve unfinished business with Msr. Marcel [Proust], but the sheer effort of trudging once more through the tall grass of l’oubli really pisses me off, because a) I’ve got a reading stack the size of two Emannuel Lewis’s teetering at bedside, b) unlike New York City, Los Angeles isn’t crawling with chain smoking, twenty year-old, brunette French waifs easily impressed by the meager virtue of simply having read Proust, and c) actually, I don’t think there is a “c”; I’m just obsessive about listing things in threes. Currently, though, the appeal to my vanity being made by these new translations just isn’t strong enough to grant them safe passage to the front of the line where Mark Steven Johnson’s adaptation of GHOST RIDER waits treacherously on deck. Am I okay with that? Not really. But I bet some chain smoking, twenty-three year-old, brunette D-Girl working on a competing comic book project is dying to hear all about the DAREDEVIL auteur’s latest, looming travesty. And that, my friends, is… not why I changed coasts, but there’s something to be said for being spared 1,000+ pages of solipsisitc prose. I believe it has something to do with “lowering standards”.