I was no longer the least bit interested in seeing President Charles Taylor. I had already waited for several hours in the night among a small battery of antiaircraft guns, assured the president was just yards away, but never seeing him; I had waited on a dirt road on a hot afternoon listening to a battle half a kilometer or so away, while, they told me, Charles Taylor directed his troops, and he would shortly send for me to view the defeated (but he must have lost, because he never sent for me); and I’d spent one night up until dawn slinking from place to place around the rubber plantation, stoppiing and waiting and sending messages back and forth to the elusive President.
You'd be a lot better off reading fucking Tarzan than this Denis Johnson mierda.....................................
He was a drug and alcohol addict son of a low grade CIA agent sent to the third world.
Here's Johnson's Credo:
Three Rules To Write By
"Write naked. That means to write what you would never say.
Write in blood. As if ink is so precious you can’t waste it.
Write in exile, as if you are never going to get home again, and you have to call back every detail.
Denis Johnson
In Silverstein's book, Nothing Happened and Then It Did, fact and fiction blur together.
He grew up in Oakland, and obviously is one of The Californians.
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