So Far, So Good

Break has thus far been a great thing, though I’m appalled, as always, by the speed with which it is rushing past. I’m holed up here in NoVa working my way through the book, trying to clarify a couple of key points. Exhaustion, though, or at least general brain fatigue, is making it hard to hold those key points in mind as I’m reading, and so I keep finding myself just happily reading along without really worrying about whether the issues I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on are sufficiently at the foreground of the analysis.

Which, from a certain perspective at least, might be construed as a good thing. Happily reading along, you know.

There’s little else to report, though. I bought a novel at the airport (Dennis Lehane’s Prayers for Rain) and merrily read my way to MSP, through a two-hour-and-forty-minute delay, and on to DCA. I’ve caught up on some sleep. I’ve worked on the manuscript. I ran yesterday, for the first time since the marathon. And I haven’t touched that pile of grading I brought with me — not once.

Later today there will be a massage and a facial and other fun spa treatments. And then there will be more work, and more after that. That’s pretty much the course of things, I suppose, which makes the posting light and awkward. There’s precious little to say when one’s interactions with the world are so narrowed.


  1. I’m not sure if you liked the Lehane novel or not, but if you haven’t read them, I highly recommend his first two novels – “A Drink Before the War” and “Darkness, Take My Hand.” (If I’ve mentioned these two to you before, forgive me. I talk them up whenever I get the opportunity because I find them such powerful embodiments of what makes the genre compelling.) These two, I believe, far surpass what he has written since, including “Mystic River.”

  2. I did very much like the Lehane, and am happy to know that the earlier ones are better. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to devour a novel — most things I’ve been reading require intensive attention, which makes for slow reading — and it’s interesting to me that the last four such devourees were crime/detective novels. In part, it’s the joy of reading something that I know perfectly well I have no intention of ever writing about. And in part, it’s a return to what reading was all about for me as a kid: escaping into another world entirely, getting so wrapped up in characters and plot — plot! — that I stopped seeing the words on the page and instead saw the action playing out in front of me.

    What I want, at the moment, is to crawl into bed for about a week with a stack of such novels.

    In fact, if you’re looking for me in late May, that’s likely where I’ll be.

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