On this day in 1930, the only man to ingest every major work ever written and survive, Harold Bloom, was born. His feats of speed and memorization are legend, but even most literary scholars are unaware that not only has he consumed the entire Western Canon, he has written a magisterial tome about each and every item contained therein.
In an April interview concerning the three-month lag between the publication of Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day and his anxious, Gnostic appreciation of it, Bloom confessed he finds it “increasingly difficult to remain abreast of major works of late because so many of them suck balls.” Asked to clarify, Bloom refused to mince words: “When I declared this the best novel in the history of ever, I must have been asleep. It wouldn’t be the first book I’ve composed thus.”
When reached for comment, John Crowley was found on the floor weeping uncontrollably. His agent, Richard Cummings, on a stepladder in the hall affixing a noose to the ceiling fan, was also unavailable for comment.