Yesterday

I awoke rather rested and recovered, it appeared, oh praise thee wonderous medicines of this satanic age! Barcode me and ciculate my t-cells as some supernummery currency for a post-World Order.

I did read 30 pages of Kundera's Life is Elsewhere, inspired in part by an aside from the Crankshaw, drawing too-fine-a-point, in my estimation of the role of poets as agents of dissent under Alexander I.

I went to the library afterwards and picked up a stack of books. I read Wiesel's The Time of The Uprooted, which I enjoyed, especially the range of characters, not simply The Storyteller, who was saved from the camps and now must wander with survivor guilt.

This surfeit of sleep has kept me awake and alert into the wee hours and I then read 200 pages of Ackroyd's Milton In America, which begins in a stunning fashion, an insight into the blind poet, his "ringing the bells of Language," the anachoristic decision to flee the Restoration and settle in New England. The book hasn't lived up to the opening sections but i will finish it this afternoon.