Just as a matter of course, I felt like updating the reading public of the journey which took an expected to turn. There will be several of these posts, the morning after posts so to speak, the wolf-trap posts. I started Lonesome Dove and arrive at the notion that I couldn’t stand it. I wanted, I pined to dive forward and check off such an enormous feat right at the beginning, take down one of my several Goliath’s. But alas, I couldn’t muster the strength to persevere through such a work this early, and it might take a couple of books under my belt to do so. I, with a heavy sigh and the dreamy blur knocked soundly out of now focused eyes, resigned to start a lesser task. So I switched, and as to my own discredit, picked a book from my own self-interest. I bought two more books this weekend given some money by an unwitting compatriot in this endeavor my grandfather-in-law, purchased March by Geraldine Brooks and The Road by Cormac McCarthy.
Being as it were, that I had only in my possession at the time Lonesome Dove, March, and The Road. Lonesome Dove and I pacing the ring of a heavyweight fight which I the lesser component couldn’t muster the Balboa like strength to stand another round, through in the towel, raised the white flag and mixing further this precarious metaphor blender, like the bully on the playground went for a lesser foe knocked down once but too prideful to throw the entire fight, went for March. Not to say a lesser work by any means, but I had a wealth of time in front of me and three targets available as I was out of town and away from my honey pot. I chose March for a specific reason. I really really want to read The Road, and the anticipation is killing me. This is a task I plan to put off as long as my helpless ambition and patience can abate. So I chose the lesser of the two eagerness and went forward with March which has been a treat for the beleagured soul.
A list is forthcoming, of the complete pulitzers and of those I already own and the nature by which I procured them.