Spider Bite Better

Seasonal sinus shit and other matters snowballed for a few days, though it was nothing that the Cup and serious introspection could decode, if only a breakneck insomniac manner, compliments of the Polar calendar and a book titled Saturday. My reading had been steeped in dread for some time, much ado about Hitler and the Gulag which growls in the night, I found such to be quite essential, a near baseline of sorts and then I read those two novels by Murakami, how disparate that experience proved! It was only afterwards, still reeling from the literary equivalent of Souljacker, that the day began with the Word and it was oddly Ian McEwan, someone I didn't care much for after reading Amsterdam. I did hear him quite often in the wake of Saturday being published, but alas, I didn't think I would have the time. You know, I was clipped quite precisely by all the subversive hype surrounding Atonement and yet I have never read a page even as I found a copy for two scratched quarters. Approximately half of the way into the book I imagine that it would be one of my favorite of all time, alas by the closing cover I found it quite good, though not great or any other stellar superlative -- either by starlight or Israelite. Let us think about the protagonist Henry and fate as a neurosuregon, how he's a reading a bio of Darwin that another English woman shoved into my own hands a few years back, why does something so taut and so real, require melodrama and that accursed device of forgiveness? Ed has since pronounced his fondness for Atonement and I will keep that in mind for a future plunge, though presently, following a conversation with Joel I have returned to Waugh for Brideshead Revisited.