I gave up today on a novel 2/3 of the way through it, which may be the longest I've gone without finishing. It was good for eighty pages, and then she delivered 120 more that were exactly the same. The novel was Bel Canto, a Pen/Faulkner award winner, which means next to nothing these days, given the political bent of most judges and the sheer number of awards in an arts "culture" that can't go to lunch without celebrating itself. I mean, why eat if nobody gets an award?

To overcompensate for quitting, I started William Gass' The Tunnel, a 650 page behemoth that has been taunting me from the shelf for several years and has been described as bitter, bilious, racist, mean-spirited and bursting with self-loathing. I've no idea why it would appeal to me. I bring all this up to let you know that I will be immersed in literary spite for some time. I cannot be held responsible for anything I say, write or do during that stretch. I am middle-aged, but still easily influenced. This is the project I've needed. Encourage me. I'm headed into the sewer- can't wait to see if the sun still glistens when I pull my head up out of the slime.