The
Tokyo-Montana Express by Richard Brautigan sits in the toilet to be read, not in one sitting, but in snatches, a few pages here and there, little pearls of fragmented, solipsistic wisdom plucked from that great, deceased mind. And brought back to life, not in Tokyo or Montana, but in Galway which, as the crow flies, is more than 14,000 miles away from both those places. How long are the snatches? How big the pearls. Well that depends. Any more than 15 minutes could be regarded as sinister. In his story
The Closest I Have Been To The Sea Since Evolution Brautigan writes:
One morning I took a shit and it smelled just like the sea. There was no difference between the smell of my shit and walking along a beach on a wharf, staring at ships and the sun going down behind them into billions of years of water.
So I don't think he'd mind a few of his pearls residing here in this little toilet under the stairs.
The Tokyo-Montana Express by Richard Brautigan sits in the toilet to be read, not in one sitting, but in snatches, a few pages here and there, little pearls of fragmented, solipsistic wisdom plucked from that great, deceased mind. And brought back to life, not in Tokyo or Montana, but in Galway which, as the crow flies, is more than 14,000 miles away from both those places. How long are the snatches? How big the pearls. Well that depends. Any more than 15 minutes could be regarded as sinister. In his story The Closest I Have Been To The Sea Since Evolution Brautigan writes:
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