Weakness

These past few days have been a surfeit of fury as I have contended with a trip to the dentist and preparing for our return to New York. A ballast of sorts has been the three books I have devoured in the last four days. Bridge To Terabithia by Katherine Paterson was chosen after I viewed the film the week before. It was likely the first children’s book I had entered since likely The Little Prince. Paterson achieved a great deal in this delineation of being an adolescent misfit and finding solace in the power of the imagination. The film proved to a fair adaptation to the novel. I then read Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes. I truly loved this one. I truly love Julian Barnes and I am forever indebted to my wife for cultivating such.. Funny, Mr Barnes and Mr. Vargas llosa are both enraptured with Gustave Flaubert and have both penned studies of varying degrees concerning his work and his place as the supposed premiere novelist of the nineteenth century. It is likely my deficiency, but I don’t accept such assertions. I have only read Madame Bovary once, such was late in my reading life – I was 29, I think. I have not read much else of his work, though my subconscious sentiment is probably shaded by Goytisolo’s essay on F’s treatment of the Oriental.

My final reading was s econd reading of Stoppard’s Voyage as preparation for seeing such upon the stage. i had thought of reading the other two volumes as well but have halted such, hoping to bide time with a perch upon the Pynchon and continued mining of the White bio