Happily abandoning Jean-Jacques and his never-ending spiral of "obscurities" ("no-meaning" I think were a better word for it, though his intent is somehow pretty clear--and fairly disgusting), I have read, and re-read, Dan Savage's pretty, witty little book The Kid, last night and this morning; liking it so much that I've found and am checking out his other two recent books Skipping towards Gomorrah and The Commitment--along with a slight plethora of books on Humanism. I have a very capacious 'Jensport' backpack. Funnily, in the same section where I found Savage's Skipping Etc., I found the Insufferable Bork's Slouching towards Gomorrah, whereof I am pretty sure Savage's book is at least partially a parody, but which nothing could ever force me to read enough of to be positive. And so, once I've found a good inspirational work on atheism, home again, home again, to await this evening's automatic deposit of my welfare pittance and dinner (or supper, as we farmboys say).

Done, and done. 'Twas what I thought; maybe better--I won't know till I've done my just-to-make-sure re-read. Meantime ([!] How did I learn to speed-read like this?) I've been reading ever more delectable smut: Panthers in the Skins of Men by Charles Nelson (who also, according to what I've found on the internet, wrote The Boy who Picked up Bullets--out of print apparently, but much more kindly thought of by editors and readers alike than PITSOM), which almost nobody, according to the customer reviews, likes very much; but with which I am enthralled by, finding in it that which everyone said was in William Burroughs' Naked Lunch, and which, to my perception (Yuck! Stupid butt-ugly, violent, raw, egotistical smack-head ethos and coprophage insensibility), Was Not There. But it's here, throbbing keenly with an exquisite wit.

And when I came into the (Main State) library today, there waiting for me were six (count 'em) smut-works that I'd put on reserve for me only a couple of days ago--I'll list 'em and, if possible, review 'em in tomorrow's blog. I'm having fun, maybe learning something.

But finally, a couple of remarks on Jean-Jacques: The comparison with Ted Bundy is somehow more one-on-one exact (Physically Abused Child Syndrome?) than I had realized. So (1) There is no notion of responsibility in Rousseau's universe; not for oneself, nor for one's belongings or "property," and least of all for others. (2) For all his burning, barely suppressible immodesty (one hesitate's even to call it egotism), Rousseau is singularly lacking in that elusive something that we recognize in others as character.