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The King of Sentences

Jonathan Lethem

The New Yorker

This was the time when all we could talk about was sentences, sentences—nothing else stirred us. Whatever happened in those days, whatever befell our regard, Clea and I couldn’t rest until it had been converted into what we told ourselves were astonishingly unprecedented and charming sentences. "Esther's cleavage is something to be noticed" or "You can't have a contemporary prison without contemporary furniture" or "I envision an art which will make criticism itself seem like a cognitive symptom, one which its sufferers define to themselves as taste but is in fact nothing of the sort" or "I said I wanted my eggs scrambled, not destroyed." At the explosion of such a sequence from our green young lips, we’d rashly scribble it on the wall of our apartment with a filthy wax pencil, or type it twenty-five times on the same sheet of paper and then photocopy the paper twenty-five times and then slice each page into twenty-five slices on the paper cutter in the photocopy shop and the scatter the resultant 625 slips of paper throughoutt the streets of our city, fortunes without cookies.

skye

studio a

skye

thorns

come on come on come on come on

come on come on come on come on

SKYE

decimus burton

a summer house

picturos

those are some photos of my last investigation. i shone light through a plastic bit i found on the floor and it made some pretty surprising and uncontrived spectacles. it was far better than i imagined because it was an accident, or at least an experiment. thank you to whoever made light