Scurry

My attempts at insularity through Sacred Games failed. I would hesitate before terming it literature, perhaps no more impressive than a middlebrow saga: Richard Russo on the subcontinent, perhaps. I can't say I hated it, it simply didn't fit.

My dislocation was soon resolved in the form of Nothing To Be Frightened Of, the recent memoir essay on mortality by Julian Barnes, perhaps elevated to some askew angle by the unfortunate and untimely passing of Julian's wife, as noted here a few weeks back.

My intentions on finishing The Anatomy of Melancholy next week now hinge upon a quick recovery from the grasp of seasonal allergy and ague. I know better than to believe I can hope to ascend through the Burton being less-than-hale.

Samizdat has a made a selection and a Srpski author at that.