A Somewhat Funk

My reading has derailed a few times since the weekend. It would be proper to attribute aspects of this to gulping wrongheaded hype about contemporary books. No, The Passage by Justin Cronin isn't high literature and , likewise, Skippy Dies by Paul Murray isn't akin to Infinite Jest. I hesitate to dismiss them both as shit books, but i feel robbed somehow by the market forces of darkness, robbed of my time, especially on quiet evening when I should've been worried about Dickens.

Years ago I bought Vs by Pearl Jam for my cousin Amber for Christmas and later I bought an album from Poe, though the thought of actually buying her House of Leaves never entered the equation. The news has arranged serial mule kicks and I bluff for composure, reeling as it were, I have sought out Pynchon, yes, I'm rereading V.