Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Brevan Howard is giving $2 billion away!

Who has ever heard of such a thing? A hedge fund giving money away! But why? Well, Brevan Howard feels it has too much money. It says $25 billion is enough. It doesn't need $27 billion, apparently. How bizarre!

But I won't complain if some of the money just happens to find its way into my bank account. If anyone from Brevan Howard is reading this, $50 million should be sufficient. And if you think about it, you probably owe me that much, anyway. All the publicity I've given you, the mystical help. It all adds up, you know. Got to be worth at least $50 million. I've got mouths to feed. (No, I haven't, but it's what people say in these situations, isn't it?)


That's enough Brevan Howard for one day. If they want me to write more, they'll have to pay me. I don't do this for my health. I want the MONEY!

By the way, I bought my angel's book the other week. I haven't had time to read it properly. I've read bits of it. Very interesting. The publisher could have used a hotter photograph. But that's only a minor complaint.

I wish I had more time for reading. I've got a stack of books, ready for my eyes to attack them. I was going to read Borges. However, he seems quite a phoney bastard; a lot like a certain blogger who annoys the fuck out of me. The only difference being, Borges actually was a writer, and not just some absurd twat quoting from writers. Yes, a phoney writer, but still a writer. Give the man some credit. Not that he'll be able to appreciate it, of course. He's dead.

I should read Lautreamont again. Even though he shocks me. [Yes, he shocks me. Me, of all people!] I can't approve of his immorality - I'm hoping it was an artistic pose, like Byron's; but he is one of the greatest and most revolutionary writers. A few months ago, I saw a book in Foyles: 500 Great Writers - or something utterly naff like that. Lautreamont, the man who exploded the form of the novel fifty years before James Joyce, wasn't mentioned in the book. (And Will Self was. Ha!) But that's the world for you. And the literary establishment. Very few people have a clue. Which is a good thing, I suppose. It allows characters like me to make a mark. Andre Gide called Lautreamont the 'gate-master of tomorrow's literature'. Well, tomorrow is here, my friend(s).

Note: in fairness to Joyce, Lautreamont wasn't discovered until after Ulysses had been worked on for three years or more. Dying soon after Maldoror, Lautreamont had to hang around for close to half a century, waiting for recognition. I mean to say that it was his ghost that was hanging around, waiting. And I imagine it had an eye out for Napoleon the Third's secret police. I / "I" imagine it was dreaming of vengeance, like Akaky Akakievich's ghost. But that's just me. And Rimbaud is an "other". And "I" can quote. "I"'ve earned the right.