Another Return to...Form

I'm back, ensconced in sorrow, bereft once again from my beloved after nearly a month of relationship ecstasy. The passing weeks have not been intellectually productive. I've flirted with Orwell's essays on the English language, and two-stepped over the four novellas penned by Samuel Beckett's "frenzy of writing" in 1946, beautifully collected here, from which the quote below is drawn. However, discussing what you should, and must expect of me; the UN Resolution concerning religious criticism fell by the wayside. Knowing my political disposition on such matters, you may have expected a juicy rant, but as you may imagine, I've been rather distracted. My efforts to follow the issue only gurgled up a late-night letter to the now-sacked editor of the campus newspaper. Read the initial piece here, to which I responded, here. And so, furtively, I pass you over to our saviour in such matters, C. Hitchens, who discusses the issue over on Slate. Also, for a chuckle, watch Hitchens join Bill Maher on his panel show alongside Salman Rushdie and rapper/activist/actor/hero, Mos Def (insert further irony here) to discuss various current affairs. Of course, there's a lot more to come, but I'll leave you with an effortlessly funny passage from Beckett's short story, The End, lending an insight into the existential ennui that flourishes out of age and ignorance:

The earth makes a sound as of sighs and the last drops fall from the
emptied cloudless sky. A small boy, stretching out his hands at the blue sky,
asked his mother how such a thing was possible. Fuck off, she said.