Sultry

My myriad persona often slips into what a casual observer would fathom as proto-paranoia. This nascent awareness is all in jest, of course, but alas I imagine that when contemplating discontinuing our subscription to the New York Times, they stuff a single issue of the Sunday Magazine with lengthy articles on Shane Battier and Neko case. Alas, as I prune down my periodical-driven distraction, the oxford American strikes back with a Southern Literature issue after such ground breaking precedents as the Food Issue and Southern Sport, why change after, what - five years, belle lettres? I have been savoring each article and as a result of the issue I hope to read Absalom, Absalom and Thomas Wolfe in the near future. I admit to having accomplished neither. I can't say this will warrant a renewal, only stimulate for the short-term.

Approaching The Intersection

I like musing whether to capitalize articles in titles. I also admit to fancying Travels With Herodotus by Ryszard Kapuscinski. I was reading such on Monday while at a restaurant through work, a young employee came in hefting a thick orange tome. My nerdish curiosity was aroused and I was then shocked to discover that it was The Histories by Herodotus. I held up my book and this nineteen-year-old was impressed by the serendipity of it all. If I can find the fast food refugee who reads Herodotus, how elusive can Gog and Magog prove?

This Hopeless Campaign

It isn't self-evident but I didn't care at all for Netherland. Perhaps an affinity with the rules of cricket would have been of assistance. I suspect that true to only a minimal degree. Color me cynical but I think the Presidential notoriety of the novel may have been crafted for an expected effect. I love our president but I don't see the extemporaneous running loose. I suppose pandering is always preferable to bombing brown people for the sake of Pat Robertson.

So now I continue with Imperial, samizdat has launched its own offensive into Richard J. Evans' Coming Of The Third Reich and finally I am reading the new Pynchon.

On All Sides

There was a citation of Charles Lamb last week by Levi Stahl that I find relevant with respect to my experiences with Netherland:

But so soon as I am told that I "must" read this or that, and have replied
that I instantly will, I become strangely loth to do anything of the sort.

Not That I Tweet

But if I did, I would announce that I am not going to bed this evening until I complete Joseph O'Neill's Netherland.

There It Is

So It is that my beloved bought me this much desired testament. My initial reading concerned whether Vollmann fashioned himself a more daring Henry Mayhew.

Just about 100 pages inward and the extent of the early interviews has been easily outpaced by the vivid topography; think of Braudel and his smitten Mediterranean.

Oh, I also finished Moby Dick on Wednesday night.

BTW

What's that mammoth lurking behind the Roubaud on the left?

Again

From the above, we can gather that its birthday time. It is regretful to ponder that my truck died today, though my father has pledged to investigate. It was quite a flood. In the aftermath of the deluge, as I awaited a tow truck, E.W. Horung's Raffles was my companion, as the title character notes to the protagonist, "Still, there's hope when a chap takes that tone."

Back

Passage out of Greeneland was elementary, if exhausting. I finished Burnt-Out Case last week and I find that I enjoyed it more than any other Greene novel of the July crusade. The Human Factor would likely rank second. I remarked to my wife that as he aged his novels simply became opportunities for priests to brace their doubtful hearts with a triple brandy and a martyr's needs to pass on state secrets whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Exchanging my currency at the frontier I picked up Murakami's memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. I read it in its entirety Friday afternoon while walking around the city. I can't say I would recommend it to anyone, even diehard Harukiheads like my wife and I.