Which is to say, it's a cold rainy Sunday and I hurt from the cold and rain and I don't want to read anything that I have on the go-- Pico Iyer's deep study of the Dalai Lama or Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking-- because both are depressing. The LM Montgomery I just finished was depressing- the airless caste-ridden insular (literally) world of 1920s PEI. So I'm reading a gruesome police procedural murder mystery modelled on the Black Dahlia killings.
This is why I've come to dislike weekends.
