Youngblood Hawke Book

From the moment i picked up this book, it utterly destroyed my will to live. My very soul became subsumed by a crumbling, mildewy dime-story copy printed in the early 60s. Breaths came in gasps, food lost all meaning, time seemed to fall away in kaleidoscopic ellipses, blocks of hours would pass without context.

I have no explanation why the novel grabbed me so strongly, except to say that 10 pages in I was Youngblood Hawke and i read each word as if it were my future sent back in time to warn me. Apparently, a lot happened.

Adultery, nervous breakdowns, hundreds of thousands of dollars won and lost, incredible back breaking work that resulted in 20 thousand pages of writing in the score of three years and an unutterable absurdity to seemed to crack open the very tragedy our lives are based upon.
Throughout it, I knew I was a writer, a gulper of life, as if the air was stuffed with an effluence of spirit which wholly sustained me, without which I could not survive. Whatever happened, I knew that. Quite a Sunday comic clipping.

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