Markson Mails It In

William Walsh

Novelist has nearly exhausted his ephemera. Nearly.

Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart. All decomposing now.

James Joyce preferred soup to stew.

Michael Landon. FDR. Bill Gates. Dennis Rodman. George W. Bush. Weird Al Yankovic. Johnny Carson. Childhood bedwetters.

Novelist once saw a horse and its rider—a beautiful teenage girl—vomit simultaneously after eating unwashed green apples from the same tree.

Novelist can’t recall the best season for pears.

Elephants love peanuts; it’s a shame that peanuts aren’t as large as watermelons.

Queen Elizabeth II recent visit to the United States—too soon.

Novelist would like to shit in A-Rod’s cap right before he puts it on.

When life gives you lemons…An apple a day…two platitudes that are rarely stated completely yet convey full meaning.

Pepsi. Breasts. Nulliparous vaginas. Hugh Hefner’s three favorite things in order of highest preference.

Hemingway was an ass man.

As was Gertrude Stein.

And Irving Berlin.

Novelist wishes Wikipedia came along in the early 80s.

Luther Burbank died crossing the street with an orange in one hand and a tangerine in the other.

Marcel Marceau had a lovely singing voice.

Picasso never painted houses.

Francine Hurd Barker. Nicknamed Peaches at birth. Marlene Mack was the second Peaches. Linda Greene the third. Only one Herb. Herbert Fame nee Feemster, a former police officer in Washington, DC. Peaches & Herb.

Boswell failed to mention that Johnson had sticky hands.

Sometimes a banana is just a banana, Freud should have said.

If Christ had been born a giraffe it would have been impossible to crucify him, said the six year old boy who lives next door.

Novelist always wanted a Citroen. Closest he got was a ’74 Saab purchased in 1988.

Emily Dickinson loved the smell of mothballs, but she often had trouble holding their wings.

David Markson is mostly known for his weird, metafictional collages of fact and oblique referential narrative such as WITTGENSTEIN'S MISTRESS and READER'S BLOCK. They are mostly all in some way about death. He also used to write detective novels. He has a good smile.

William Walsh’s stories and derived texts have appeared in New York Tyrant, Juked, Caketrain, LIT, Rosebud, Elimae, Crescent Review, Quarterly West, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. His first novel, Without Wax, will be published in March 2008.