In the night, after staying in all day, and being completely unproductive, but for a nice texting conversation with a new Tinder hopeful, I try to read Roth, early Roth.  I peer into the early pages of Portnoy's Complaint.  The outstanding virtuosity, the humor, the gift of words, and the ability to present an alter-ego to explore the inquiry with sufficient candor...  Chapter Two, Whacking Off...  Bold.  More than a passing reference.

I get tired of it.  I switch back to Goodbye, Columbus, and that too begins to bore me quickly.  Maybe, like Roth himself admitted in recent years, one outgrows...

It's a scary time in my career, life in general.  In need of relaxation.  My own healthy physical Central European male reaction to imagery of women of all ages enjoying the hobby of anal sexual response. I take my time.  There is precedence in Kundera's work.

There is the new computer system to worry over, and also the late dinner facing the barman, the boss, a birthday party in the back room...  The last party, the last night in town.

Aside from the practice of checking on one's own health, a good idea at age 53, to make sure everything still works, I'm not urged to chronicle a fictional life in the way Roth, the master, has.  Another message keeps stealing in, that to be pleased, one must put aside, as in Luke, his life in order to gain it, to give up on his own selfishness and all the immature impulses...