Sartre'd Out

Much as my spirits sunk on Saturday only to find relief as I hear of serial family disasters (yes, my sister - again, my brother is divorcing, yes - again etc) such traction was shortlived as I lapsed into headcold, suddenly, Jean-Paul's ruminations on the Self-Taught Man the shrieking significance of Being was the prescribed elixir, gradually then suddenly, to ape Papa, I reached for Dostoevsky. I have read the major novels, save one. This is my third attempt, the last being during the winter of 98 amidst an ill-timed visit from the bio-mom.

Three days in, my curiosity appears convinced that it is a different translation, the Garrett being the culprit the last time. Such innuendo is always convoluted, especially given that I read movable Feast around that time and I think such (Ernest Eternal Recurrence) dampened my opinion of such. Who knows?