Holiday

The weather has varied each day her ein the suburbs of Chicago, I think it is an approrpaite context for my own conflicted state concerning literature, or, more precisely, my reading presently. My wife moved on from Ovid to Rabelais to my considerable joy. I am hoping to read such in tandem. Bracketing our joint venture, I had her read a Kundera essay on rabelais and the history of literary humor. Like most matters Kunderan, it meanders and pauses, sinuous threads connect, but barely. I enjoyed the piece afterwards, though I admit that I only recalled a fifth of it in the 12 years or so sense i read it last. I thought i would also spur my reading of the Byatt by digesting her story The Day E.M. Forster Died while walking to our public library and back.

Taking off on our trip I proved indecisive and packed nearly every book I have been browsing as of late. I read 70 pages of Age of Cathedral by Geroges Duby and I thank my friend Roz for not only pointing me in its direction but for the illuminating discussion we shared over ale last week. I brought the appropriate Bakhtin but have yet to actually slid into such. My reading of the Byatt flowed freely today as it rained and I was left alone here in the house. We have to go to the consulate tomorrow and then to Powells.

Such digressions inevitably give birth to plans and I hope to read both Dracula and Frankenstein this month to adopt the spirit of the season. That said, my reading Nothing To Be Frightened Of by Julian Barnes last year while distributing candy to ghosts and ghouls felt marvy with a doubt.