'I was raised in a cult.'
not quite page 18 line 4 (but nearly).
for some reason horsemouth was just thinking about kafka's zurau aphorisms. then the dreadful thought came to him that they might have been extracted from disparate texts, collected and published by max brod (and thus not really be an intentional work by kafka at all but a further example of brod's light fingered bad taste).
a similar tin-shack leaned against a cathedral is probably the work of thomas de quincey. take his on murder considered as one of the fine arts where he makes reference to coleridge dashing out to watch a building burning down as an aesthetic experience.
eventually wordsworth and coleridge disdain de quincey's services (and money) and run him off.
now horsemouth is a bear of little talent - he therefore sympathises with the little men de quincey and brod as they scuttle around making the clever little things the big men disdain to make. horsemouth's talents are talents on this small scale. he is frustrated
that said he finds something inferior in the construction of the creative-writing tutors. a certain over-work(shop)ed desire for popularity. it has not been allowed to become narrow and particular and truly great.
yesterday a walk up to walthamstow (st.james street oxfam, the scope, the sue ryder etc.). no joy other than that of the walk.
horsemouth has a cough (and a drippy nose) still. but the weather seems to be warming up (we are moving towards the equinox and spring). today - er. he doesn't know. he wants to be well by saturday (so he can go for a walk/ museum-visit with a friend). monday a meeting of the communal endeavour/ the equinox itself.
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