I don’t care what other people say. I think it’s great that you have your own book club. This is just what we expect from the guy who got an entire generation of awkward girls to read William Blake. Sometimes it was hard to decide whether a fedora or a copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience was the coolest Duran Duran accessory. I suppose we could have waited until college for various creepy-but-compelling herbal-cigarette-smoking grad student guys to help us shape our passionate and misinformed opinions of Blake, but no–because of you, Simon, we all had our first Deep Blake Thoughts at the precocious age of 14. Never mind that sometimes we were also wondering about the fearful symmetry in your trousers, Simon. It was an important early literary experience.
But I have to tell you, Simon: after two years (from 1983 to 1985) of sustaining a complete faith in your genius in lyrics such as no steel reproaches on the table from before and on the razors edge you trail because there’s murder by the roadside in a sore afraid new world, don’t you even fucking make me try to read House of Leaves. No way, Mr. Union of the Snake, I have about had it with the stylish esoteric shit. No, no, no.
Still, your book reviews are really kind of charming, and they make me want to sit on your lap and teach you stuff about commas.