huddled, quivering, twitching in my hole, i'm waiting for this day to end. the pink slides on my feet cannot compensate for the way today has ravished the utter calm of my weekend.
and i'm no closer to finding fabulous books today than i was last week.
i'm going to have to start choosing books the way i choose wines - the label. for a while i did this when i was in college (and how awful that midnight special closed! i only mention that because it was my favorite bookstore when i was at ucla.)
anyway, picking books based on cover art wasn't so bad. yes, there were disappointments (How Proust Can Save Your Life) but then there were the good ones: The Virgin Suicides (in hardcover, long before Sofia Coppola got her hands on it), Pagan Babies, The Lost Art of the Love Affair, The Pillow Book of Lady Onogoro. it meant i paid more for hardcover but book buying should be an investment; it should make you hurt, somehow.
perhaps i'm taking such a long time because i haven't found a book to bruise me.