Even Now

The holiday weekend afforded considerable respite and the presence of mind to divide my attentions between three novels. The core this spell also witnessed my reading The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick. I was impressed by the story, but found excessive praise larded upon it by Elie Wiesel and Harold Bloom a tad hyperbolic. The piece demonstrates an excellent ear for dialogue and plumbs psychic scars that I try not to envision.

I am still enjoying the gilded achievement which is The Children's Book.

I encountered the name Lily Bart in Generosity by Richard Powers. I realized that I had never read House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. The means to remedy such were little more than a holiday weekend and sub-freezing temperatures. I also picked up Geof Dyer's latest, my inclination proving to be but David Mitchell's endorsement on the back matter. Maybe I'll write about Dyer later in the week; we have a history.