Hermits Rock

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Currently, I’m in the middle of four books, but I don’t want to open any of them or begin any new ones, even though there’s several on my table that I’m eager to read, and my ambitious project of reading our entire library is still barely fledged.



in one of the three novels i’m reading, this habit of mine drives my wife crazy…

a dead man just got up and walked out of the morgue with a stiffy, which he had because he was not a comatose vegetable about to die, but spying on the man in the hospital bed next to him, who was convalescing from a botched hit job and had spent the last hour making love to the sexy widow who is possibly the person who sent the toughs to take out the man to whom she was making love, and his three domino partners who had been snooping around her place recently because a series of deaths led back to her. though now, it could be that the guy who walked out of the morgue with a chubby might be the one behind the murders and the botched take out, or he could be with the po-po who didn’t seem to believe the convalescing man’s account of the poorly carried out killing.

It’s weird, too, because I do like all the books I’m in the middle of, except that—being history, social science, and philosophy—none of them are good bedtime reading.

My copy of Kalpa Imperial came yesterday. I’m starting it tonight. Perhaps my funk can lift.

the dead man walking with the woody happens to be a secret service agent.

With all your invigorated corpses, you should read Crace’s Being Dead next—as a complement, you know.

I read The Once and Future King in its entirety for the first time in eighth grade. I finished several hours before bedtime, and I spent those next hours walking around the house, weeping, thinking I would never find another book to read again.

My mother tried to get me to read The Cloister and the Hearth.