Read Disgrace. Swallowed it. Loved it. Ran immediately to see the movie wherein Malkovitch does a thing to the character that made me think twice about our main protagonist. In the movie I saw his face/value as being a corrupt egocentric I could pity with sympathy whereas in the book sympathy came first and protected him from my loathing his sorry old mind. Very interesting. Very good read . . . sigh
And then there’s the thing that by now is obvious. Bound to happen. Errors crop up as we walk by them. In this instance it’s all the “Octobers” of the decade. On this calendar they all should be represented by a proud “O” (except in ´19. That is an “S”? And the “Decembers” are flawed too. Pfff). They are not and they don’t. Yours truly is a sorry ass proof-reader. And he decided not to give a damn. Especially since for the marking of this book/post I used blood. My own. So far I’ve thumbed in progress in maroon watercolors. From now on it’ll be real live blood as penance. Dramatic? Nah. I draw some every week anyway, modifying my immune system with those damn interferon shots . . . sigh.
Now there’s a lull in reading. Or should I say an inadequacy to actually finish what I start reading. Both Camus and Rilke were discarded before I got to page 99, yawning. Appetite all gone and hung to dry. I have Saramago waiting at bedside though. But I’d rather play guitar really. Like this: http://thishow.bandcamp.com/ … sigh