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Bollettino Hysteria So I come home. So I come home and I am already unhappy. So I come home and I already know that once again, four weeks after I sent the invoices to these various places I’ve worked at, there will be no check in the box for me. So I come home, and I have a rash, a poison ivy rash, because I worked pulling out weeds and tangled up vines and rogue lantana and shit for my man, and there must have been poison ivy among the mix, and though a rash on my arms is take-able, I’ll lose a little sleep, yes, with the desire to scratch, the bad thing is that this poison ivy rash has somehow got on my dick, which hasn’t happened to me before, how it got there I’d rather not think, although actually, the hand to dick thing peeing at the hamburger place after pulling up the weeds must have done it, not that I am so unaware that I usually don’t wash before I pull it out when I suspect I might have been around poison ivy, but I must have. So I come home and I’m walking home w

Liberty and Virtue! When! oh When will your Ennemies cease to exist and or to persecute! Our Country will be envied, our Liberty will be envied, our Virtues will be envied. Deep and subtle systems of Corruption hard to prove, impossible to detect, will be practised to sap and undermine Us and the few who penetrate them will be called suspicious, envious, restless turbulent ambitious -- will be hated unpopular and unhappy But a Succession of these Men must be preserved, for these are the salt of the Earth. Without these the World would be worse than it is. Is not this after all the noblest Ambition. Such Ambition is Virtue. Cato will never be Consull but Catos Ambition was sublimer than Caesars, and his Glory and even his Catastrophy more desirable. --John Adams Well, it is Kerry in the one corner, and deep and subtle systems of Corruption hard to prove in the other. Except those systems aren’t really impossible to detect – we know all about Cheney, Bush, Rumsfeld and Wolfowit

Bollettino The thriller as history The news that France is dealing with a mysterious AZF – a group or an individual – who is threatening to put ten bombs on ten train tracks resembles a less than A list Frederic Forsyth novel. Here’s a translation of Liberation’s sidebar article about one aspect of the incident: “The mysterious group AZF that is attempting to blackmail the minister of the Interior with a bomb – with proofs at hand and an actual bomb laid on the Paris-Toulouse line on February 21, on the level of the viaduc of Rocherollers, near Limoges – put in place a system of communication with the investigators of one branch of the national police that operated uniquely with personal ads in Liberation. The investigators have found themselves constrained to obey the instructions put into place by the blackmailers, a sort of terrorism against the commons, meaning that they had to organize their rendez-vous and contacts by way of the personals of Liberation, become the in

Bollettino Edith Wharton was twenty five when she and her husband dined out for the first time with Henry James. Wharton recalled her idea of impressing James: “to put on my newest Doucet dress and look my prettiest.” For a lot of critics, this says it all: Wharton is James in a Doucet dress. Wharton herself, who started in the decade after meeting James, was immediately dubbed as his imitator, which must have justly irritated her. Besides which, in the time she was closest to him, around 1905 to 1910, she was not at all an admirer of what she considered the balderdash indirections of his late style. LI is not at all an admirer of Edith Wharton. Or even, I should say, a detractor. There are certain American writers to whom I feel I owe a debt of reading. Willa Cather, John O’Hara, and Edith Wharton are among my ghostly creditors – even though the debt they would have paid back poses a very Derridian question – is there a debt of reading that is paid by reading? But I will hold