But triumph was the kitchen light back on, and Prof Islamic Studies calling out to me as I was spraying the cherry with CritterRidder, 'I think it's working. Haven't seen the raccoons around for a while.' (Yes, sir, but you were away Thursday to Sunday.) 'Bet they've got a For Sale sign up on your tree.' Well, still, triumph! and was it worth all the money I spent on expedited delivery of those ultrasonic alarms if mothballs and ammonia would do the trick? Oh, probably. No one says they're gone for good.
Just finished: Tanith Lee, The Winter Players. Thin volume, read and pass on to another home. It's... Tanith Lee being Patricia McKillip, sort of, which I find more bearable than Lee being Lee.
Also finished Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion, and dipped into enough of Murder in the Queen's Garden to find out who dunnit, though not actually why. All the names of Elizabeth's Maids of Honour run together, so I had to google nearly as much as with The Courtier, only to discover that all the romantic pairs were destined to unhappy endings
Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Bought in my university years: the UofT Bookstore had a distinctive way of marking prices. And this cost me less than five dollars forty years ago. As for the book itself, oh well. Could do without the Freudianism. Has not aged well.
Possibly I'm still reading The Killing Moon. I can never tell.
It's not likely to cool down any time soon, and I'm not sure how Machiavelli reads in heat. Maybe The Prince. Or maybe reread The Epic of Gilgamesh as both Ondaatje and Campbell are suggesting I do.