2014-06-10 - 9:38 a.m.
98 degrees on Monday afternoon. And it's only June.
I was up much of the night on Sunday reading The Goldfinch. I read Donna Tartt's other two books, and I remember that they were well-constructed and that I enjoyed them, but that's about it. This one will stick around a lot longer. The story of Theo and Boris really captivated me. I suppose it didn't hurt that I knew all the settings, especially Vegas. Indeed, it seemed as if I'd met all the male characters (and many of the female ones) in Vegas.
Of course at the gaming table I basically saw only the douche side of Boris, with only little flickers of hints that they were resigned (as opposed to proud) of being what they were and that if they'd had any choice in the matter they might have been otherwise.
The compassion in this story reminded me of Philip K. Dick as, of course, did the theme of what is real and what is fake.
I watched DH's podcast with the two philosophers, and I was astonished at how well it went and how much they had to say. They talked for two hours and could have talked for two more if it had been scheduled.
I feel a bit like Georges Bataille: "...what remains with me was at first a violent silence..."
Apparently it's "news" to MSNBC that the Clintons were hounded during Bill's presidency and that they were left terribly in debt as a result of being prosecuted over a blow job. They're running it as a news story...today. I'm just glad the Clintons were able to come back so triumphantly. Take that, haters. For that matter, I recall the day when a certain nice guy writer was panic-stricken because he was having trouble proving that he was the same guy with a very common name who had about five grand on then-new-site Paypal and he needed his damn money. Anyone who stumbles on my diary today would know his name now...George R. R. Martin. You go, dude. Pocket change to him now!
So it's come to this. Either ninetysomething friggin degrees or the raindrops so violent they qualify as small hailstones. Sigh.
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