So I limped it to the bike shop and limped to work and limped out of work and limped through one library and three used bookstores looking for The Master and Margarita so I could read some Magic Realism on the weekend. Found it finally, but didn't feel like paying $8.50 for the privilege (especially as the English translation reads a little lumpenly from my casual dips into the text.) So bought What's Bred in the Bone for $4 to see what's so MR about Robertson Davies. Went to the Vietnamese chain restaurant that has good spring rolls and wine; but they've changed their policy since the weekend and no longer serve by the glass but by the quarter-litre bottle. Which is fine by me. 250 ml is a large glass of wine, exactly what I want; and halfway through it I began having flashbacks to France and warm sunny evenings starting to go cool and the taste of cilantro and rice noodles, while out on the pavement the post-work crowds do their happy outdoor thing. Very nostalgic.
But I have to say-- dear god, Robertson Davies is a clumsy writer. Entertaining maybe, but how his characters do go galumph galumph galumph as they exposit. Truly, he should just write those passages in his own narrative voice and not use sock puppets to provide background. It's almost embarrassing.