Reading some David Jones again. Trying to get out of my rut (trench?).

Along with some Ross McDonald potboilers from the 60s. Funny writer. A lot of self-parody.



He smiled with conscious charm. But the charm he was conscious of, if it had ever existed, had dried up and blown away. His front teeth glared at me like a pair of chisels.

I got out my black book and made a note of the Cadillac's license number. It had California plates.
"What are you writing?"
"A poem."
He reached through the open window for my notebook. "Let's see it," he said in a loud unimpressive voice. His eyes were anxious.
"I never show work in progress."
I closed the book and put it back in my inside breast pocket. Then I started to turn up the window on his arm.

(from Black Money, 1965)