An artist is a man of action, whether he creates a personality, invents an expedient, or finds the issue of a complicated situation.
Joseph Conrad

I'm constantly on the lookout for new authors. New forms of provocative narrative, textured exposition, there is so little of it out there. Ondaatje is good, Eco even Better, I don't mind Douglas Coupland, but he's starting to wear on me.

Conrad was a giant, Orwell was too, Thompson, until he swallowed the pistol was a hero. Who is out there who can compare to them. Who are the modern giants?

I'm tempted to think of Umberto Eco, but he writes a book once every ten years.

The bunker is a cold place these days, huddled against the window, trying to find a light in the darkness caused by fog and clouds, I peer onto the horizon trying to find an end to the interminable. That's where the hunt for the new giant takes hold, an escape. Turning on the magic box is terrifying at best, poisoned writers, exploding cars, idolized killers. Hate as a form of comedy, this is what passes for fun these days.

To make matters worse, I look to the CBC for solace, and whose ugly mug is facing me? Mulroney's, I thought we finally got rid of him years ago, why does he keep coming back, like a poorly healed boil?