the introduction is an inane and aimless grand and breathy ramble spouted by a
much-written-about writer espousing multiple "human classic" themes he unwittingly
imposes on the actual text. Food, Sleep, and ("[ahem but i know so much about
this subject that i need merely beat around the bush using the most cryptic, antiseptic,
symbolic terms available within the trampled resources of my own writing faculties
so as not to get my paragraphs all wet]") Sex (which (through knowing references
to much-written-about books) he believes is considered (ahem) enjoyable) are (he
believes) the underlying motivations of the character of Roy who (he believes)
does resemble Raskolnikov in the slightest. after that walk down interminable
corridors of early american government institutional facility (unpainted steampipe
ineffective desk and threelegged chairs thrust aside until the proper janitorial
paperwork is completed... the novel then opens like clambake ovens in a wave of
heat and the dirbbling hiss of oil globules on cellarcold stone. there is an imperceptible
murmur of whispered mystical incantations echoing down telescoping archways, columnades,
unlit stairways. the spectral bloodless apparitions slowly don their ballpoint
anointed HELLO MY NAME IS labels and drift inwards to the panoply exchanging hissed
gossip through mascara-lashed countenances. the smiling arrival of the purse-clutching
"Connie" Dobbs provokes tittering snickering fits of loathing and disgust among
the waxen lips, coy cheeks. the funeral has been delayed as Glazier, restless,
refuses to die. nervous lawyers struggle to convince him, assertively assuring
him that his rigid visions of Napoleon and Pocahontas are guaranteed in the third
hallucination clause of his postmortality contract. below on the moondeck at the
transdimensional mezzanine and ice cream pavilion Bucky reclines poolside to the
blown stanzas of Larry "Brass Pelican" Elvivi. it is Bucky's slackest hour and
he knows it. he has ordered several squash daquiris and anticipates their trayed
arrival with the calm assurance of a wealthy tanned suburbanite. the solemn haunt
of the golem birds acting in their judicial capacity. which way to the restroom?
up and to the right. was it Bucky's arrangement that provoked the decrepid incident
in the basement: the unwashed sphere amid the rusted ventilators and the acrid
aroma of the lye soap that rested in the slick indentation of the chipped and
axlegreasestained porcelain sink? the corners were thick with uninvestigated treasures
in crates of stale deal. the psychic feedback abrasive to the touch like the electric
discharge of some timewhetted sharpening stone. the dust was grey and thick.
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