The Wilshire Sun

The Wilshire Sun
Автор книги: id книги: 1547752     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 1228,2 руб.     (13,79$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Городское фэнтези Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9781933527529 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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Marketing Notes:"Tao Lin meets SJ Perelman" in The Wilshire Sun, a book full of dynamic, slyly original language and off kilter imagery. Masterfully paced, Baldwin's comic timing is reminiscent of vintage Woody Allen. The elements of the novella's constitution – clipped pieces of fast paced immediate narrative interspersed with epistolary matter and off-the-cuff riffs on junk food, screenwriting, Walt Whitman, big brothers, bum grandfathers and crackpot friends – magically hang together and offer a delightfully absurd portrait of the artists as a young man in the City of Angels.Selling Points:Form – The Daily Beast calls the novella the «perfect form for our time.» The Wilshire Sun is short, portable, compellingly discursive and mysterious.Humor – The books humor will spark a wave of positive word-of-mouth in the blogosphere. The author is a contributor to closely followed group litblog digitalemunction.comComparables:Out of My Skin, John Haskell, FSG, 2009The Pleasure of My Company: A Novella, Steve Martin, Hyperion 2004Jakob Von Gunten, Robert Walser NYRB, 1999

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Joshua Baldwin. The Wilshire Sun

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Table of Contents

Title Page

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I awoke this morning extremely queasy and consumed with the feeling that I am the only person alive—at least on my block. I sat at my desk, lit a cigarette, flipped through my father’s facsimile of the 1860 Leaves of Grass—“afar on arctic ice, the she-walrus lying drowsily, / while her cubs play around;”—and dumped the bit of water remaining in my thermos onto my head. That would be my bath for the day. The cigarette tastes of wet cardboard, I announced to my naked feet. I must get moving, because I have been sitting in my room chewing my lip and turning my head from side to side quite a while now.

These past few days I have been occupied with a new project: writing letters to and from imaginary persons regarding Los Angeles. Some of the correspondents sound fairly insane, their voices echoing with the sort of brighteyed lunacy that I think only Los Angeles allows, like:

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