Holidays Heeled

I presently require a cure or heal of own, nothing chronic, of course, only more crud exacerbated by schizophrenic weather and lying on my back in a winter rainstorm. The first holiday hurdle of the season was negotiated and I realized Thanksgiving Night that I wasn't going to occupy myself with very middling literature, as it were. This realization occurred after I was amped up on 800 mgs of ibuprofen and had spent the evening reading 160 pages of Special Topics in Calamity Physics. That's enough, I muttered to the night amid the dulcet drone of our new furnace.

Since then I have spent time, again, with Dorothy Dunnett, have braved more effort with Henry James, in tandem with my wife, and devoted significant time to Sarah Bakewell's book on Montaigne.