New Day

Humbled by disaster abroad, my own concerns about life and WORK locally appear trite by comparison. I awoke rested and travelled across the river for the book sale at Locust Grove. I have often thought derisively about folks who arrive early at book sales, all the while aware of my inclusion in the subject. I seldom encounter the fascinating but simply the bored. Perhaps one could sprinkle some emphasis upon the simple in the previous sentence.

Anyway, I encountered a number of gleaming books including Yaakov Shabtal's Past Continuous, which Joshua Cohen deemed the Israeli Ulysses, The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy and Vladimir Bartol's Alamut. The latter pair I have coveted for the last few years since spying them on the shelves in Chicago and failing to purchase them.

I have spent a few late evenings with Alexander Theroux this past week and I find Darconville's cat to be astonishing, albeit in sore need of editing. That said, I bought his Laura Warholic as well as The Jewish Messiah by Arnon Grunberg this week and will move into such about completion of Theroux's Cat.