A few weeks ago, I heard a review of a book, "As Meat Loves Salt."
I remember when I first idly opened this book over my morning coffee. I had other plans for that day, yet after about 10 pages, I put those plans aside. Indulging myself, I curled into the living room armchair and galloped on as the sun rose high. I don't, alas, often say this of any novel as an adult, but I could not put it down.
High praise, right? So I checked it out of the library. I went so far as to ask for an inter library loan (which is friggin awesome. Seriously. Any book in the country except new bestsellers is available for this inter library loan. If I work this right, I may never have to buy a book again).
So I read it and it's terrible. Well, I'm sure it's got artistic merit, maybe even be a classic, like Faulkner. But by golly, it was dark, sad, depressing, violent and, unbelievably, erotic, if you consider gay rape erotic, that is.
In a change of subject, my sister survived her knee surgery and is recovering slowly and painfully, but recovering. My mother returned to Dallas with my Uncle Bobby who is also recovering from his stroke slowly, but at least he's here where we (well, my mom) can look after him and his care properly.