Just finished Dave Grohl's Storyteller. It was really good.

I burned through Jane Kamensky’s fascinating biography of feminist porn icon Candida Royalle. Royalle began kept a diary from her adolescence until she died in her sixties, so she had real-time documentation of her career in porn (on both sides of the camera), her activism (and eventual frustrations with activism), her period of drug addiction, etc.

I just read a short run, limited press thing that was written by my great uncle. I didn't really know the dude, but he adds to my family mythology of the east coast, WWII vet people. The book was surprisingly well written with a good structure, and only some slight stylistic annoyances. It had me wondering about my grandparents' culture, and thinking about what kind of dude Uncle Volney was (yeah that's right, there was a man named Volney Lacy born in 1918), and maybe by extension if it offered any insight to what my Grandfather was like, since he passed when I was 5. There have been troves of writing debating how well you can know someone based on their fictional characters, and this is even more of a prism for a family member. The dude was clearly into boats, nostalgic, and fairly preoccupied with sex. Beyond that he remains a mystery. I might have to send some second cousins some emails.

The Dangers of Proximal Alphabets by Kathleen Alcott.

Finished Marc Ribot's Unstrung the other night. It was ok, more a collection of writings than a straightforward autobiography. I was hoping it would be more of the latter, where he talks about working with the artists he's collaborated with.

Absence by Peter Handke

Their Four Hearts by Vladimir Sorokin. Insane book.

Up next, The Butt by Will Self. I know he gets some shit but I think he's incredibly talented.

Edit: 30 pages in and loving it. Guy decides he's gonna quit smoking and flicks his last butt of a balcony. The butt lands on some dude's head on the balcony below. I won't say any more, but it's fucking funny.

This article about Alan Sparhawk.

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/perso ... art-of-low

Madame Bovary. It isn’t moving me like Salammbo did, but go fuckin figure.

I got a wild hair and checked out Proust's Swann's Way from the library. I know there is a good chance I won't make it, especially in a busy work season, but after years of hearing/reading people talk about a piece of writing I want to at least sample it. Some things are less difficult than advertised. 15 pages in, Swann's is pretty interesting. Cerebral meditations on the epistemology of falling asleep, but exceptionally well written.