Brett's Books


It's my book. And I'll read it however I want.

by Jerzy Kosinski

The Name of the Game

I have been grabbing up books by the boatload (or more accurately, armload) from the library. Day after day, they have a shelf of free books they are giving away. And I could take them all (or at least, take my fill) each and every day. But that could get cumbersome. So, although I am grabbing some books as building material (think toy wood blocks), a project which I like to think justifies my greed, for every book I nab, there has to be some chance I will read it someday; for, that is, also, part of the game. And oddly, if I read a book, I will throw it away and not use it as building material, as I don't want to confuse what has been read with what has not. Thus (and in short), there is some overlap between Future Building Blocks (a, now, abandoned project) and possible Future Reads.

With me so far?

So, there I am, perusing the free books. This one is the right size (more or less), feels clean, and has some naked chicks being cupped in the palm of a black gloved leather hand like they were birds in a nest on the cover. Oh, I guess there are some guys in there too. So, it has potential. I like a good F-Fest!

But when I flip open the book to get a feel (are the pages intact and all there, what is the story all about, and am I drawn into the words or put off; so, you know, as I browse a little), I notice that someone has gone through the entire book, highlighting this and making notes on that. And since I have done things similar to this before, in that instant I knew (just knew) the appropriate way to handle this book was to read only the parts that had been highlighted, letting my thoughts be guided as appropriate by the handwritten notes from the reader who came before.

Or as Jerzy Kosinski might say:
"Now I'm in charge of the plot. It's my novel."

"No, you don't. Not anymore," I told him.

In short, it's an art project... guided by a found object... and nothing more.

Childhood • Control • Death

Control over death.


Freedom is Death.


Freedom = Death

And finally:

Insanity2 = Sanity

As clearly:

Insanity2 = (In)2Sanity2 = √Sanity2 = Sanity

The highlighting project is:


And by Planning, of course, I mean Planning the Perfect Murder.

See? It's all a game to me!

Like waves of understanding.
It waxes and wanes.

How can you control me?
If I do not control myself?
Nor even know the game?

Do you?

Lord, thy name is Chance.

It's often too much to handle... overwhelming, as it is, in its boredom.

Die! M-F-er!

Such denial?
Fine! I will deny you, your self!

It is not easy to Defy Death.
He seldom takes No for an answer.

Alas, all is for naught.
No matter how hard you try.

A Wooden Spoon
A Receipt
$ .05

So out of date.

Yes, in the end...
It's all about the money.
I've been think that...
For some time, now.

Zero is that number which is not equal to anything, not even itself.

Infinity is the same... only more so.

And there you have it, as the second hands go round and round.

Must I spell it out?

-> ∅ + ∅


∅ + ∅ ->

The choice is yours!


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And now that it is over and the book safely in the trash can, I will leave it for you to untangle what parts came from the book, those handwritten notes in the margin, and all the irrelevant parts of my own imagination.

One thing is for sure, though, by not reading Cockpit in depth, I do not feel as though I have missed anything. After all, if I want sexual perversion, there is the whole of Internet to explore.

© copyright 2018 Brett Paufler