Dieu me pardonnera; c’est son métier

On the bedside table:

local souls, Alan Garganus

collected stories, Amy hempel

the crossing, cormac mccarthy

the blue guitar, john banville

all that is, James salter

believing is seeing, Errol morris

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Also: star of the heart by clarice lispector. Consider the possibility that Felicite and her parrot would be a boon companion as a read-along with this one.

Alas, the pulled heart string is not enough on its own, and neither is the head gone soupy for having been bashed up against a figurative wall by its own self’s intransigence. By bread alone we aren’t to live, even if we can and sometimes, in brief spells, do.

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Donald Rumsfeld deserves a fact-facing vitriolic historicizing obit of the kind by which HST rendered Dick Nixon. An island of rats, feasting on each other. But not without joy, of course.

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Also this