Static

I remain at home, though less turgid than before. Every eight hours I am struck by twinges of discomfort as the analgesic tapers. Antibiotics remain king. As my friends and beloved have informed me, one hundred years ago this infection would have likely spelled my end. Thoughts of mortality are heartily shoved aside and left to my own pathetic pondering. November has often proved the most masochistic month for me. That is a mouthful, no dental puns intended. I spent a few hours yesterday afternoon reading Natasha's Dance by Orlando Figes. This cultural history of Russia is quite readable and rife with anecdotes. It has shifted my musing to Pushkin and that piercing joy of many years ago, discovering Dostoevsky and reading away days while at my grandmother's.

Today has witnessed my first hard work towards the Pynchon. As noted on samizdat, I have backtracked to reread several sections to maintain the routes of association, most of this book, even so early on in its course, crackles with magic.