Oh yeah, by the way: Jonathan Lethem, author of quite a few books I have quite sincerely enjoyed, will be at the Cleveland Institute of Art on Thursday. So will I.

...What he said. (I'll have to read "Time to Go" this week, which I have in The Stories Of.)

Exciting!

Two facing rows of storefronts receded steeply down the packed-earth street. Where the buildings ended, nothing could be seen above the surface of the street, no horizon, no countryside, no winter sky, only an intense radiance filling the gap, a halo or glory out of which anything might emerge, into which anything might be taken, a portal of silver transfiguration, as if being displayed from the viewpoint of (let us imagine) a fallen gunfighter.

- from Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon

Hell if I know how to discuss or react to this book, 1005 pages into it. Summaries and discussions are by nature reductive, and this is a book that completely resists reduction. This much is true, though: every now and then, however dazed and on-autopilot I feel about the thing? There's some little tough little grassy patch of language that can't be stepped past lightly. Cuz, hot damn.

I don't usually do this, but uh, here you go: Space Olympics equals comedy genius. That is all.

I've been going into this whole design thing for it's own sake, but I've also consciously been thinking about how it can affect or improve my writing, or my relationship to literature. If nothing else, an immediate focus on fundamentals of design--line, shape, value--has got me thinking about the fundamentals of reading and writing--plot, character, voice--in a way that, in the rush of things, I think I've easily and often lost track of. It's interesting.

David Foster Wallace is dead.

It takes a special kind of book for it to feel like you're in the come-down phase when you've got 400 pages left to go. Of course by this point I've lost all track of what kind of "shape" Against the Day offers. Unless the concept of fun is considered a shape. Then, well.

In other news, have I mentioned that I'm now pursuing a certificate in Graphic Design at a local university? It's true. On a whim. A life-changing one. So now words like "shape" and "line" are loaded for me in headache-causing ways they weren't before. Loaded like a quarter-inch brush full of watercolor. But more on that anon.

In the meantime: more Janice Galloway coverage here, here, and here.

So at first I'm conflicted because I'm all like, "Sweet, a hot chick, second in command of the entire country, I can get on board with that, as a worst case scenario at least that is," but then I'm all like, "Oooh, banning books is NOT HOT," and everything made sense again. Frak.

Janice Galloway has fabulous shoes on. You notice them immediately. She's ensconced, regal and sleek, in the rather grotesque grandeur of the private drawing room in Edinburgh's Scotsman Hotel. The fabulous shoes are slender black patent stiletto heels with a Westwood-y hint of tartan at the toe and a tiny bow. She notices and compliments my shoes. I compliment hers back.

One of the country's most important contemporary writers has published the first volume of her memoirs; an extraordinarily detailed, beautiful book, and I'm getting gooey over her footwear. It's not as facile as it seems though. This is Not About Me, which traces Galloway's life from birth to 11 and centres on her early relationship with her mother and much older sister, is a book about women, about watching women, and about learning to become a woman.

Okay, fine, you got me: I only keep pointing it out because I really want to be Janice Galloway's footwear. Like...the kind she wears on her feet. What can I say? I am a whore for attention.