Finished Goytisolo’s The Garden of Secrets yesterday evening, before going to a friend’s birthday party. That’s going to be a tough one to compose a post about.
This morning i read some stuff on French literature, only to bore myself senseless with profiles of people more interested in social and political aspects of their novels than experimenting with storytelling. Blach.
News is slow on the internet this weekend.
Dove back into Alexander Theroux’s Primary Colors, but decided to save it for when my attention is more diverted. It was a surprisingly easy read last night even though i was drowsy and mildly buzzed on booze.
This evening, Heym’s The Wandering Jew, a book that i’ve been reading for nearly a year and a half, resurfaced. It had been abandoned halfway through, but it was easy enough to figure out what was transpiring. Now there is only a quarter left. There’s no explanation why this book keeps being set aside.