I do not entirely comprehend why male writers output such jibbering rubbish in the midst of a woman’s body? Is there some kind of mental deficiency that takes over when invoking the female form?

Yesterday I had a page 160 or page 161 moment with Alberto Moravia and his Boredom, to which I have now returned to for a third attempted summit. He has redeemed himself mildly with an exchange about dying in the midst of a bathroom sink on p173, but this man’s Boredom is becoming tedious where it previously fascinated. Somehow he is too easily satisfied in his prose, Moravia that is, in what he decided for it and where else it might have peaked (piqued). I’m finding this man Dino’s obsessive neurosis and  jealousy combined with increasingly cardboard Cecelia (afforded at this point about as much complexity as a bunny with an itchy foot)  … well wearying. Somehow I want the unexpected and p’haps this is not the literary land in which to find it.

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