Exculpatory Musil

The wages of transcontinental travel continue to weigh heavy upon my soul corporeal. I fell asleep last night after just beginning to broach Pynchon's Against The Day. It is difficult to describe the slanted delight I absorb with every crafted sentence. I thought about that this a.m. and realized my crucial error towards the Musil: I didn't take my time. I was aware that the Pynchon was waiting for me back in Indiana and I pursued the reckless all-or-nothing gambit to receive the new novel properly. Such was my downfall, I'm afraid.