I started reading Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day last week.

Love. It.

Love.

And well okay I'm only on page 72. But. Still.

Love.

I realized this as soon as page 10, which, the two paragraphs on that page? They're good paragraphs. ("As they came in low over the Stockyards...") They're the kind of paragraphs that I read a couple times, and then I closed the book, and I stared at it on my coffee table for a while, and I thought about just bagging the whole thing and going out for coffee and never coming back to this place, this place that contains this book, because, really, seriously, hot damn, but of course I'm a sucker for having a bed to sleep in and not being a wandering bum, so I picked the book back up and kept reading, and I'm glad and all, but damn, for real? I'm not sure I can handle all this awesome.

I'm not the first person on my blog reading list to make my way through the book--there's others out there, of course, but I've lost track of links, in a way not dissimilar to the way in which I've lost track of entire paragraphs of this book mid-stride. At the rate I'm going, it will probably take me a year to finish this book, with the way I keep reading and re-reading paragraphs, which I'm fine with, because it's so good, so far. It is exciting to me. I love it.

Bugger. Please forgive this post. I'm completely out of practice. I've been the suckiest blogger to ever suck lately. This book makes me want to blog better, though, which isn't much consolation to you faithful final five readers who don't give an arse about Pynchon or this book, but. Eh.