Reading Mr. Wallace.

It has now rained for 24 hours. This condition has left me depressed. I have found solace in Manchester United and the queasy joy of The Pale King. Contrary to my usual bliss with the Latest Hot Novel (see Vollmann, Bolano, Enard etc) I have read within limits daily. I will likely complete the novel this weekend, maybe this evening but i find myself thwarted by its scattered approach. As much as there is to savor, I can't stop my interior voice from muttering, it isn't finished.

Going to Chicago soon, I am struggling whether to take along Our Mutual Friend and tackle its final 500 pages or, perhaps, Mary Barton.