Perhaps The Bombs Will Rest

Robert Fisk has proven, amongst loftier achievements, to be an audible author. Dozens of times over the past three days I sighed and groaned under the spell of his vivid accounts. Whereas his devotion to the Iran-Iraq War was singular and crushing, his interlude revisiting the Armenian genocide was overly familiar given our reading last summer of Burning Tigris, a text Fisk cites on several turns. Yesterday afternoon I arrived at the plight of the Palestinians the expanse and compunction of the myriad Treaties and Accords, the all-too-familiar events which I recall so directly, the settlements, the Intifadas, the ultimate fall of Sharon and Arafat, who asked Fisk about Michael Collins’ fate.

Following my Sunday protocol I hoped to explore Clockwork Orange but found the necessary glossary too inconvenient, so I returned to reread Marx Family Saga by Goytisolo, a book I bought and read, apparently seven years ago this month. Complete Review, which did me an unsolicited favor by listing my blog on its index, rates the novel its highest standard, the elusive A+. I didn’t recall it being that good, but the day’s reading has corroborated such acclaim