“Chloe dreamt that she was having sex with her father-in-law’s dog, Wystan, a particularly skinny and nervous whippet. The whippet’s claws scratched her shoulders and breasts terribly — his needle-sharp teeth nipped at her ears; what was going on down below Chloe could only intuit, not feel, but the idea alone sent alternating pulses of nausea and shame coursing through her subconscious.
In this week’s Sunday Times Will Self “sends up the aristocracy in a wildly eccentric tale about an heir who, when he can’t father a son, looks to his trusty whippet for a helping hand”.
Fascinating reading and lecture from Will at the Google HQ in California. Will talks about psychogeography, Debords’s The Society of the Spectacle, the Romantics’ framing of beauty and how we can break out of mediated forms of experience, that takes in Laurence Stern, micro-worlds and the development of boulevards. The reading is from his latest book, Psychogeography, and is about his experience at US Customs.
It was one of those things that married people come to loathe about their spouses with a deep and passionate intensity, along with the timbre of their coughs, their tipsy giggles, the particular, guilty creaks with which they ascend the stairs. In Holly’s case, it was the dismissive flick of thumb and index finger, with which Brion indicated that the subject was closed. That he wasn’t going to come out with them to lunch – and that he didn’t wish to talk to her anymore.
“Self recently wrote an introduction to one of the Pocket Canons, the series of new versions of the King James Bible introduced by great writers and published by Cannongate Press. Self introduces the Book of Revelation with his own take on technology, religion and the millennium.”
This is an audio recording of Self reading his introduction
[This short story was first published in Dr Mukti And Other Tales Of Woe]
Then he was back, suddenly and savagely. Not that he knew he was back, he simply found himself in a room full of monsters, lanky, pasty giants clad in disgusting nether garments, who, rather than beat him compassionately into stability, kept their distance and moaned. Their vocalisations were so low and febrile, so ghostly. They made no signs that he could comprehend and when he could bear it no longer he attacked.