At long last, I finished "The Portable Dorothy Parker" this morning.
It's chockablock full of purple highlighted lines - many of them her razor-sharp and sometimes acerbic witty one-liners, many lines just absolutely brilliant I had to read them aloud and relish the way they rolled off my lips.
It took a long time to close the book on her, and I feel changed after reading her.
I wish I lived during that time when journalists were infamous celebrities - and not just because I am a journalist myself.
It seems so much better to ready splashy tabloids about drunken witty writers than whorish no-talent "actresses" and "actors," does it not?
Next on my nightstand:
- Finish the partially started "On the Road with Bob Dylan" by Larry "Ratso" Sloman.
- Follow that with "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand.
And with that, Mr. Dylan and I have a date on my freshly cleaned back porch.
I love spring Sundays at home!
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