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Marie Calloway's debut novel, 'What Purpose Did I Serve in Your Life?', is a remarkable work that resists a purely formal appreciation.
I fucking LOVE my Sennheiser headphones. They've served me perfectly for going on two years now.
And that's why you shouldn't go to Jesters, kids.
After years of study, I feel I have yet to arrive at anything resembling a comprehension or appreciation of Walter Benjamin's thought.
Paris in the 60s or Berlin in the 20s? Tom Waits or Nick Cave? Reader or critic? Bitches Brew or Sketches of Spain? Will Self or Martin Amis? Bosch or Bacon?