LIT-IDEAS@xxxxxxxxxxxxx seemed better than a place to journal between two wars or a refuge during the Bush administration. Rather too recent, it was one of those new lists where every archive is a cupboard of ciphers, and where the Spam and spybots surging in the Internet refuse to keep your hard disk company in the registry; for the list had been recently relocated and each post stood out so clearly that it might have been stamped like a real snail mail letter and each signature written in fountain pen, unlike vulnerable poorly administered networks in which, after a DOS attack, all the minidumps on the blue screens are outlined in one's leaky monitor, to trick the hours you lounge reloading windows from scratch. I spent the whole day in my room, the windows of which opened upon the muddy rat-haven of Eleanor Roosevelt Park, upon the trash cans by the entrance, upon the missing leaves of the great trees beside the Hudson and in the forest of Hoboken. It was a pleasure to contemplate all this, I was saying to myself: "How charming to have all this mud on my window" until suddenly in the midst of the great picture I recognized that the message board of the CHURCH OF LIT-IDEAS@xxxxxxxxxx faded in contrast to a tacky yellow as though it were far distant, not a reproduction of Phil-Lit, but its very self which, defying time and space, thrust itself into the midst of the luminous drizzle as if it were pollution engraving a statue. And if I left my apartment, at the end of the passage, set towards me like a band of scarlet, I perceived the front of a little EXIT sign which though only made of plastic, was of a scarlet so vivid that it would catch fire if a single ray of sunlight touched it. ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html