Roy Lichtenstein (1961)

I’m writing from the weather
inside a dictionary of difficult words.
- from "(notes toward the spectacle)" by Noah Eli Gordon

Friday evening I spilled my prose all over a crowd of maybe thirty people, give or take. I read three things, went two minutes over my limit, and enjoyed it quite thoroughly. At times I got a laugh or two, even though most of my stuff isn’t very funny. When I finished, I stepped outside with K. and my brother, and this writer guy that I know comes stumbling out, tells me he’s been drinking while grading papers since noon (at this point it’s like 4:40) and he begins to give me his critique of my reading. Not an ounce of flattery, just a detailed account of my shortcomings. He pointed out that I messed up a few lines, that I shouldn’t have stopped in the middle of the third piece when I stumbled over the sentence, “Great crisp scaly shelter turned textile mod gaudy.” I thanked him for his keen observation. In the future, I’ll try to remember to be perfect.