Make It Five

I completed The Great Fire of London yesterday by Jacques Roubaud yesterday. The musings on walking and reading implored by own solitary strolls in the sun stretched afternoon. The consensus was that a general thrust of the "project" was missed by me, without doubt. Roubaud's work proved to be a synarchic triumph, references to Defoe's Plague Journal appeared to even engender an account of Rooney's weekend hat trick, if possible. I have since been involved with Alexander Waugh's Fathers and Sons, a survey of his own family and their accountable Tory greatness. The politics have bothered me without a doubt. I was then misdirected by a friend and bought book i didn't need to. This afternoon, I truly value Martin Amis and William Faulkner. I hoped to read Absalom, Absalom in the next few months.