Sublime

In 2012, I read an article by the writer Ryan O’Connell for the first time

5. I’m a nice person. Unlikely.

This was food for cooks. This was food that we got. Simple, straightforward and absolutely pretense-free. Like Scott.

He brimmed with that most conventional and embarrassing of qualities—“taste.”

With each new adherent I am crossing the line from unclubbable fruitcake to tolerated eccentric.

That tracings of lampblack fallen in a beaker really knocked me down the other day. A gorgeous observation. Who knows if the phenomenon is true, but it’s enough that one can imagine it and the image astounds.

That’s the trick with Blood Meridian — the book, for me, soars not on the shock factor of the gore, which is so gruesome it’s all you can see

ecstatic.

week eating fried fish for breakfast and cake for dinner, leaving underwear on the counter, and blasting Ghostface Killah.

Mrs. Amber Moltke, the artist’s young spouse, wore a great billowing pastel housedress and flattened espadrilles and was, for better or worse, the sexiest morbidly obese woman Atwater had ever seen. Eastern Indiana was not short on big pretty girls, but this was less a person than a vista, a quarter ton of sheer Midwest pulchritude, and Atwater had