Thursday, March 5, 2009


-John Cheever

The sun was hot. Dinosaur Trader sat by the green water, one hand in it, one around a glass of gin. He was a slender man-he seemed to have the especial slenderness of youth-and while he was far from young he had slid down his banister that morning and given the bronze backside of Aphrodite on the hall table a smack, as he jogged toward the smell of coffee in his dining room. He might have been compared to a summer's day, particularly the last hours of one, and while he lacked a tennis racket or a sail bag the impression was definitely one of youth, sport, and clement weather. He had been swimming and now he was breathing deeply, stertorously as if he could gulp into his lungs the components of that moment, the heat of the sun, the intenseness of his pleasure.


Anonymous said...

Sort of an Ernest Hemingway meets Hunter S. Thompson ring to it.


Dinosaur Trader said...

Yeah, I'm reading his stuff now... loving it.

His journals are depressing however.