Inhuman Swill : Page 209
Why is my blog called Inhuman Swill? Because you can unscramble the pieces to make William Shunn.

The subject of the new chapter is, of course, in part, polygamy in the early Mormon church. This one was a long slog, and brings the stack to 835 ms pages.

I got email from my agent this morning. Sophie Harrison at Granta passed on the manuscript, saying:

Thanks for your note, and thank you for letting me see William Shunn's manuscript, which I've now read. It's an interesting story with an appealing narrator, and I've certainly never come across anything that gives such a clear insight into the Mormon philosophy and way of life. However — regretfully — I have to say that I don't think it's a book for the UK market; I suspect that it would be much more meaningful in a US context. But it's an intriguing book and I wish you and the author all the best for it.
Okay, girding up my loins for the next foray.
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...and this one to 801 pages.

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Two chapters born at pretty much the same time, strangely enough. This one brings the total to 778 pages...

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Why I hate headhunters


They call it for a reason . . .

From: Ed O'Reilly
Subject: outstanding
Date: Tue, 6 Mar 2001 13:48:14 -0500

Good morning,

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Chapter 39: "Great Falls"

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Boy, where has the weekend gone? Just finished another chapter of the memoir, and the count stands at 770 ms pages.

My agent's gonna fuckin' kill me.

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Laura's in Wisconsin, the upstairs has laid off the piano, I have Robert Plant on the stereo, and I'm starving. I've been sitting here at my desk all damn day. Time to rustle up some food and go to Laura's to feed the fish.

Oh, yeah. The count stands at 756 ms pages.

Curmudgeon and co., I'll fill you in soon on those other details. I promise. But right now I have a weekend alone to myself to write with!

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Oh, Jesus Christ!

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After sawing and pounding and power-tooling away all night and all day, the people upstairs have apparently finished building themselves a piano. Five and a half blissful years of peace and quiet in this apartment, and now there's suddenly someone playing bad music badly on an instrument that's badly out of tune.

Jesus, I think my brain is about to claw it's way out of my skull. I won't be able to work here much longer tonight. My neighbor would seem to be working his way through his sheet-music collection. God!

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In my junior year of high school, I signed up for an advanced humanities class that encompassed history, literature, art, music, and drama from the beginning of recorded time. This daily seminar was presided over by the legendary Mrs. Vivian Beattie, an extraordinary teacher amongst what for a public school was a remarkable slate of extraordinary teachers. (Remind me someday to tell you stories about my math and computer science teacher, Lenzi Nelson. When you ask, tell me you want to hear about the teacher who threw chalk.)

We adored Mrs. Beattie, a ferocious old iconoclast whose demands on her students' intellects and attention pushed most of us as far as we'd ever been pushed by a teacher in our lives. She asked us for all we had, but in return she conferred upon us the gift of critical thought, not to mention the kind of respect most adolescents never feel from adults—the respect that says you are a worthwhile generation, no matter what anyone else tries to tell you.

That's usually how it worked, anyway.

If there was one thing Mrs. Beattie would tolerate, it was muddy thinking. I ran afoul of her cruel, casual dismissiveness in this regard one morning during our unit on 19th-century art. The topic was visual composition, the subject under scrutiny Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres's famous portrait of a nude harem girl, "La Grande Odalisque." Surely you've seen it—it's Ingres's best-known painting. The Rubenesque slave girl (the titular odalisque) reclines amid the various appurtenances of a fantastic Turkish harem—veils, silks, furs, pipes, jeweled belts, feathered brushes—with her inhumanly supple back to the artist and her face turned to gaze mildly back at him over her right shoulder. The ripe globe of one breast can be seen in partial eclipse, shadowed by her right arm. The painting was reviled in its time, but is today considered a masterpiece of French neoclassical portraiture.

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741 ms pages. Laura's in Wisconsin. Time for bed.

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Today's celebrity sighting

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Miguel Ferrer (most recently seen as the mid-level drug dealer arrested in San Diego by Don Cheadle and Luis Guzman in Traffic). I spotted him entering an apartment building on Columbus as I returned to the office from my esophageal X ray. The radiologist told me to drink copious amounts of water today and tomorrow or else suffer severe constipation as a result of all the barium I swallowed. I'm curious now to see whether or not I will set off the theft-detection devices at Tower Records. I'm sure Miguel Ferrer could care less.

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