Even before I arrived in Varanasi, I knew I wanted to reread the Varanasi section of Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. A freelance writer is always on the lookout for potential story ideas that will allow him to pay the bill in the morning, and this seemed as good an idea as any.
It was true that I’d written similar articles before—about reading The Quiet American in Saigon and The Old Man and the Sea in Havana—but I reasoned that this would be different for the simple reason that I hadn’t actually enjoyed the Varanasi section of Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi and didn’t really want to reread it except as a means of making money. But that was in and of itself the perfect reason to reread it. Because I didn’t want to, I had found myself in a perfectly Dyer-esque situation, not unlike the one he writes about in Out of Sheer Rage, his book about not wanting to write a book about D. H. Lawrence.
A small generic cialis online rectal probe is inserted into the vagina. Since cheap viagra no prescription the system is too much complicated, thus there are greater chances for the device to hang and stop working. Among them some health disorders can really be fatal and can find out these guys generic viagra online cause our body to be able to use glucose .After taking food the body breaks down all of the sugars and starches into glucose which is used for power. Frankly I was shocked to female viagra online find my forgone energy back in me. The above paragraphs are about as far as I’m willing to go as far as aping Dyer’s style is concerned: the endless repetitions, the practised air of self-sabotage, the circular logic that reinforces itself even as it threatens to cancel itself out. It’s not a difficult style to pull off, which is one of the reasons I have grown increasingly wary of it, both in my own work and in his.
Matthew Clayfield
Matthew Clayfield is a journalist, critic and screenwriter.
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