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Biblioklept 
Eric Idle Describes the Alcoholic Non-Limitations of Fourteen Philosophers
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boosey beggar who could think you under the table.
David Hume could out-consume Shoppenhauer and Hegel,
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as schloshed as Schloegel.
There’s nothin’ Nietzsche couldn’t teach ya ’bout the raisin’ of the wrist;
Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed.
John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, after half a pint of shard was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away, half a crate of whiskey every day.
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle, Hobbes was fond of his dram.
And René Déscartes was a drunken fart, “I drink therefore I am.”
Yes Socrates, himself, is particularly missed: A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he’s pissed.
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Is it wrong of me to think that David Markson is the most important fiction (?) writer of the last 25 years? Because I do. I think his work is going to outlast almost everyone else’s.
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I think he’s maybe the great canon-maker of the early twenty-first century. I’m working on a bigger thing about W’s M and the four citation “novels” after it; the quote the other day from the Flann O’Brien is part of that.
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