71 minutes

Just one week ago I praised the fact that I had finished two books in a single day. I have repeated the feat. I read Sunset Limited by Cormac Mccarthy in just over a hour. Described as " a novel in dramatic form" -- it is Tuesdays with Morrie as penned by Houellebecq.Not as bleak as The Road, but nice apertif to Iceman Cometh. Cheers.

Finished ( a 2d attempt)

Ths may create somewhat of a duplicate but I prffred a terse announcement about my conclusion of Iceman Coemth while lounging at Oxmoor, surrounded by morons. That post has went fugitive. I have mulled about since browsing various lit blogs and will attempt again to stake such.

Less-Than-Crawling

There have been sudden changes in my well being over these last 24. I have went from an unquenched euphoria to the throes of ceaseless coughing. I may die. I spent a fair amount of time yesterday with Burgess' earthly Powers. I will cease such today.

Here's to my friend Roger enkindling the idiots.

Pseud-Flu Fecundity

It is very rare that I cna state that I finished two books in the same day. Yesterday met those criteria. I had been sick and walking/working for a few days and I decided to avert death I should rest. I slept for fourteen hours. i awoke and after a single double espresso (boggling, isn't ?) I read for seven hours, completed the decidedly middleborw Perfume by Peter Suskind (recommended by an Austrian chap named Jakob) in anticipation of seeing the film at a Belgrade film festival next month. I then resmued my efforts with the Wedgwood while listening to Beethoven quartets and some Tomasz Stanko. Just before suppertime, and my wife's arrival home, I began Lambs of London by Peter Ackroyd. It is a historical novel about Charles Lamb and his acquaintence with both the literary hoaxster William Ireland but a novice Thomas De Quincey (freshly arrived from Manchester, land of Anthony Burgess and a pair of quarrleing sibling rock stars). On could see the wires moving but alas it was a charming diversion and i finished it before ten. So much so, that I picked up a few more of his books from the library. I am still medicated but on the mend, I suppose.

“Leave them that plague, which in time will consume all their vigour, and marital spirits.” Such was a statement attributed to the Goths upon their descent into Greece after considering the conflagration of all the books in that fabled land. This comes from the Burton, as I duly continue this plod, easily six months onward, as I grasp the hefty tome each morning when nature beckons.

My reading has continued, often with élan, though the silence of my peers has muted my thoughts on the Wedgwood and I have made tremendous gains in the O’Neil have placed that aside so as to afford my beloved time immerse. I picked up a few obscure titles this past weekend and read all of the Cartier Project by Miha Mazzini. the author is Slovenian and the novel was penned in the late 80s, a time of gathering storms, to use a soiled metaphor. A filmmaker by trade, the novel proceeds as a series of scenes, not unlike the Turgenev, but centers upon a pair of Bosnians that the protagonists encounters and their own ambitions and hapless efforts to succeed. It was quite the delightful departure that I needed. So I proceed, indeed lacking in marital spirit.

Thursday

Yesterday was a celebration, to echo the sentiments of the Laureate. My wife called to tell me the wonderful news, joyous both because of Orhan's specific situations as well as his craft as a novelist. I was nearly aloft afterwards while fielding the local festival. This was coupled with a thorough examination of Slate's fiction week and the serial debate of novelness between a pair of blokes I respect, but only from a firm distance. This all congealed into thoughts on culture and the Ste, how both from a post-Summarian perspective have always been colored askew; that's the point innit? One can think of Trollope and his desire to capture the How in the ways we live. I keep thinking of Amis and and his meanderings, punctuated with the profile of Tony Curtis in The Sweet Smell of Success.

An Image

I sometimes consider that my life is a great of just such looting, a benefit from location and absence of station. I have decided to forgo on the new Powers. I suppose my focus will be on Eco and musil before the new Pynchon arrives.

Stirred

My sole reading regret of the week has been not keeping up with the Iceman Cometh, though I hope to remedy this tomorrow, while strapped into day-long festival shuttling.
The Wedgood has been a delight, albeit an opaque one. I register no complaints and I hope to have all in order before our holiday.

Two weeks Tardy

My friends Joel and Ed have both complained about an ill-adjustment to the syncopations of life since their recent journeys: oger has not made a similar utterence, alas, my point contends - I have been all out of sorts per this and other duties since that hiccup of a trip to Chicago. The past week allowed an opportunity complete Fathers and Sons again as well as read A Man For All Seasons and Beowulf in a two day period. My copy of the Wedgwood has arrived and I have made serious progress within and as of today, I have begun The Iceman Cometh.

There are no sweeping ideas in the foment chamber. ciao