Reading Jasper Fforde
Is making me feel all literary. It also makes me reflect on the difference between absurdist fiction and surrealism.
I'm reading "The Eyre Affair" and Becky is reading "Lost in a Good Book." I accidentally picked up her book and got about 20 pages further along from her bookmark before I realized I was reading the wrong book.
On a related note, am I the only one who watches the news these days and says: "The best lack all conviction, while the worst are filled with passionate intensity. And what rough beast, his hour come round at last, slouches toward Washington, waiting to be born?"