Commencing in the year 1990 I went to Luby’s in Waco, Texas with a big woman. I was twenty years old. We went once a week for the fall and spring semesters and then we would go to the free symphony. I have no issues with big women. Our society is sick against them. It says it’s not, then it bombards them with advertisements and fads and fear and dogma and what I believe is hate. They stand out because they’re not supposed to stand out and those are the ones that stand out the most. Because we never stop talking about standing out, whether good or bad, because humans are so fucking self-absorbed now they think they have to stand out with their looks and leanness and perfection and well, fuck that. Go be sick on another planet. Not this one. This lady, I believe, is married now and I won’t say her name. We haven’t spoken since ’91 and it’s not my place to name her. At the Luby’s we would eat a normal meal and not something that would make us shit blood from all its preservatives. Then we would talk about books by dead people. I’ve always been a fan of dead writers, how they shaped their craft and told their stories in a time I don’t remember or haven’t lived in. I probably won’t ever be one of our “treasured writers” or asked to give a top ten list of my favorite books. So I would like to list ten of my favorite books by dead people. They are dead. Won’t be writing anymore. I went through the list of the last 270 books I’ve read and picked out ten for you nice people. I want you to know they exist and by existing they can be read. If you read voraciously you’re forced to ask questions that non-readers would never ask, because they don’t know to ask them. If children read they are smarter, know more and tend to have higher incomes, unless they become actual writers of challenging material then they tend to be poorer. I think that’s okay. If you write something worthwhile and you know it’s worthwhile then people will read it, at first in a trickle and then in a stream, and after you’re dead in a flood. (; These are in no particular order. They’re just great books from the big woman herself (these ten were on her list and mine) I have on a list from ‘91. IRONICALLY, without knowing it, I’ve read all ten since March of 2014. I really hope she isn’t dead. The world needs big secure women. And I was proud to be in public with her.

Light in August- William Faulkner (readable for any and all I believe. Though Faulkner is always challenging).

As I Lay Dying- William Faulkner (academic types have been fucking the meaning of this book up since its release).

Under the Roofs of Paris- Henry Miller (really offensive and filthy. I love it).

Flaubert in Egypt- Gustave Flaubert (I’ve never known a human to ejaculate this much in a day. Unless it was me at thirteen).

Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?- Raymond Carver (I think he died the year before the list. We must’ve read that he died or something. I don’t remember).

The Old Man and the Sea- Ernest Hemingway (people should be fined for not reading this one).

A Good Man is Hard to Find- Flannery O’Connor (focused and delicious creepiness).

Journey to the End of the Night- Louis-Ferdinand Celine (yes, life is shit at times, and also hilarious. And I don’t know how to accent the e in his last name on this damn machine).

Sky- Blaise Cendrars (I named my daughter after him).

Hunger- Knut Hamsun (read this. We really have it easy).

Thank you for your time, JBS