Mar. 19th, 2008 02:34 pm
Never enough
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muckefuckWhenever I strike out for lunch in town, I always tell myself Don't fixate on anything, because that's how you end up making bad decisions. I started with visions of a caesar salad pita, but awoke to the tempting possibility of chapchae once I realised I'd be passing less than a block from Joy Yee. However, when I got there, not only was the place closed, but it had been since early December! Shows how often I break routine. (They claim a "Spring 2008" reopening after "expansion", but I don't see a lot of activity going on behind those papered up windows.) So it was a pita after all, with a side of Here Come the Warm Jets. Not half bad.
I stopped by Amaranth in search of novels by Brian Moore and Seán Ó Faoláin, but returned to work with nothing more than a copy of The complete stories of Flannery O'Connor. Shiny as a new penny and only $8! Last week, I bought The collected stories of Katherine Anne Porter and last year I picked up Collected stories of Katherine Mansfield on the mistaken assumption that she was Katherine Anne Porter. (I realised my mistake when I failed to uncover Noon Wine in the table of contents.) In total, that's about 1,800 pages of short fiction. When do I think I'm going to read all these? I sent Ponder Heart to my sister a little while ago in the vain hope of getting her hooked on some other writer than Jane Austen. (Nothing wrong with Miss Jane, of course, but she's been very derelict in producing new works and I feel compelled to do all I can to keep my sister from falling prey to any fanfic.) No word on whether sees even received it, much less cracked the cover.
I stopped by Amaranth in search of novels by Brian Moore and Seán Ó Faoláin, but returned to work with nothing more than a copy of The complete stories of Flannery O'Connor. Shiny as a new penny and only $8! Last week, I bought The collected stories of Katherine Anne Porter and last year I picked up Collected stories of Katherine Mansfield on the mistaken assumption that she was Katherine Anne Porter. (I realised my mistake when I failed to uncover Noon Wine in the table of contents.) In total, that's about 1,800 pages of short fiction. When do I think I'm going to read all these? I sent Ponder Heart to my sister a little while ago in the vain hope of getting her hooked on some other writer than Jane Austen. (Nothing wrong with Miss Jane, of course, but she's been very derelict in producing new works and I feel compelled to do all I can to keep my sister from falling prey to any fanfic.) No word on whether sees even received it, much less cracked the cover.