Dig. I just had lunch with Rabelais and Montaigne.

The book I'm reading is great. From Dawn to Decadence: 1500 to the Present, written by Jacques Barzun (Harper Collins, 2000). It's just magnificent. Perfect balance of breadth and telling details. Luckily, Barzun wrote a lot of books. I've only read The Culture We Deserve to date. Hate that when you read everything an author has written.

Wondering who I have in mind? Isaiah Berlin, Agatha Christie, Iris Murdoch (fiction), Larry Kramer, William Barrett, Wallace Stevens, Joe Orton, Jack Kerouac. Except for Kerouac, I just swallowed them. Like candy. Couldn't get enough. Jack took doing. Some of his stuff is sooooo tedious. "That's not writing, that's typing." There are probably a few others I'm not thinking of. And a few authors who have only published one book, and whaddyaknow, I read it. I think Stephen McCauley, who wrote the last book I read (True Enough) only has two others to his credit. And I read The Object of My Affection.

Oh. And Michael Cunningham. He wrote The Hours, which is one of the most brilliant books I've read. And I know him. He's such a total hottie. He was the friend of friends of mine, and we'd run across each other not infrequently in the early '90s. He always had a boyfriend. But there was always (always!) that certain electricity in the air whenever we ran into each other. Okay. I'll spill. I wanted him bad. He's tall and rangy and hairy. I bet he makes a lot of noise in bed. I bet his cum tastes like apricot preserves. I bet he loves to take it deep and slow.

*sigh*

Reading broadens one's perspective so.