“I dont hate it,” Quentin said, quickly, at once, immediately; “I dont hate it,” he said. I dont hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark: I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I dont hate it!” — Absalom, Absalom

I once overheard Noel Polk say that “Southern” was a uniquely American South term, but I reckon everyone struggles with the ambiguity of home.  Spittin’ and chewin’ is something I’d probably like to do. Yet with such an occasionally ugly and mostly prominent history, it’s hard to accept even the slightest ambiguity.

Years ago, I sang “Every day, headlines say” for my punk band. Even without the cheap rhyme, it was a trivial song that in the internet age might have been a reaction to a post’s comments section. My job here is to steer you toward headlines that won’t drown you in the odor of honeysuckle. So read an ode to the little bookstore. Or the end of Hemingway’s machismo. Travel to Rowan Oak, and don’t forget to say hello.  How about an interview with Waits, a man who knows a little about seeing different sides of a thing? Hunter S. Thompson is next, see The Wall Street Journal reflect; no really, you might be surprised.  Or just write, but really, truly write.  Tomorrow, I’m not reading the local letters to the editor.

Call him Jeff the writerman. Growing up, Jeffrey Eugenides and friends wanted to be harvesters of literature. Now years gone by, we find them ruling that sea. Alexander the Great was a young ruler, and, true to his name, there are five books out right now about him. Will Self ponders relationships, specifically what happened to the once symbiotic one of the novel and the symphony. Before one has a relationship, one must read between the literary lines of personal ads, if that’s the way one wants it to be. John the Fisherman’s mind turned to the sea, like Jonathan Lethem’s obsesses with Norman Mailer. Call them Thursday’s Flurry of Words.

The stakes are high, and, in all likelihood, by the time you read this the results will be in (UPDATE: Transtromer wins!). It’s Nobel time, and I hope you’ve placed your bets. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Google’s got your over/under and just about everything else. Save your time and find out what Maurice Sendak thinks about Rushdie right here. Find out if it’s worth betting on Ezra Pound’s letters home. Finally, here’s a great remembrance of W. G. Sebald.

It’s time for another Thursday flurry of binary code. Yesterday saw the release of a new e-reader from every bookstore’s nightmare, so we might as well start with Sam Harris’s take on the future of the book. In time, we won’t even need humans to write them anymore. Danny Torrance’s future is near, and The Atlantic goes local. Finally, people say don’t rock the boat but, in an unrelated link, a book about the fine life of Hemingway (and said boat). Oh for the days that used to be.

If I never see another sabal palmetto tree again, my life’ll accept it. Their branches are roach motels and the body as a whole is about as epitomizing of fake plastic trees as I can imagine. I say scavenger flora. With that off my chest, Harold Bloom has a few (more) words about literary anatomy. The Oxford American wants to know what you freshmen or grad students are doing here, I mean there or wherever you may be. How has fifty years of Catch-22 changed America? Shel Silverstein’s posthumous collection is here. Finally, fiction is unfortunately non-fiction in Aatish Taseer’s Pakistan.