Faulkner and I are going to have some major mucho probalos if he continues in the bloated veins of Quentin's obsessive tendencies around his sister's virginity and his own suicidal thoughts. I am sick of reading about suicidal people. I feel depressed after reading about them. Tenebrious eyebrows and pouting, chapped, and Byronic lips accompany sore feet that have walked Many Miserable Miles and a heart as heavy as . . . a RING of POWER! Yes, I can associate even the itchifying Faulkner's despairing moans with Tolkien's enduring hope.
I am making pasta alla puttanesca (not alluding to its unfortunate eponym) and some fennel tonight, and we are having roasty chicken too, with rosemary and lemon and stuff on it only I am not making that bit. I am feeling rather kitchen-savvy, though. Very nice. Except what I really want is an umpteenth helping of scalloped potatoes and ham, that Ifo made what seems like a million years ago. SO YUMMY and comfort-foody.
More Faulkner, then I will let myself listen to LOTR as I drift off to sleepybye tonight. Or maybe I will cheat and listen to it beforehand. But only after Faulkner! Gah!
Oh, and Italo Calvino is hilarious in his If on a winter's night a traveler. I giggled all the way through my grilled chicken caesar wrap and put the Halloways (adventuresome, sleek, fat, stray black cats that haunt the restaurant premises) on their guard. The daydreaming Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle fan must also read this, and Leibniz might also like it much. I don't know. I haven't finished it. Just the first few chapters. Can't wait to read that instead of Faulkner!
Ok. Now is the time: finish off Faulkner, once and for all! Until I have to read The Marble Faun!