I’m sick of social media, the trolling and the take-downs (for something as straightforward as reading and buying books), the idiocy.
I’m reading something great. I’ll be back as soon as (if) the need to connect overtakes the need to be on firm footing.
Spent most of the day with this novel, start to finish. It has a hungry current, has love for its subjects, has intrigue, has also clarity and space…it absolutely rips.
I can’t decide on this Booker-shortlister yet, though at 30 pages, I’m farther in than I got with either Strout or Stuart. It feels cold and easy, but like there might be a twist or some authentic darkness in store.
On roses—
Rilke: “That one should open like an eye, / to show more lids … to quench / an inner fire of visionary power.”
Anne Carson: “They stood up straight and pure on the stalk, gripping the dark like prophets / and howling colossal intimacies ...”
To do laundry (visible) and clean the kitchen cupboards or read this puppy I THINK YOU KNOW MY CHOICE.
We watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the other night. It drag-assed in the middle, but I’m committed to Paul Newman as the most beautiful human face who ever lived.
1993 hardcover Dalkey Archive Raymond Queneau for $4 I will take, yes.
I could sit here while Cărtărescu rapturizes about love and death and the nature of reality til my little insect brain freezes.
Finding a first edition that was turned into a very popular and very timely Netflix series for $1 is fun.












