Am currently reading Boredom, by Alberto Moravia, having just finished the superb 10th of December by George Saunders. Compared to Saunders who is all dark, anxious laughter brimming with tears, Moravia’s prose manages to stay marvelously put, replicating (maybe) his protagonist’s existential malady: “what struck me above all was that I did not want to do simply anything, although I desired eagerly to do something,” a sentiment Moravia repeats and enacts variously throughout the book, leaving the reader—me– alternatively exhausted and elated. For a little relief, I’m dipping into Francine Prose’s short biography of Caravaggio, as well as a strange little book, beautifully appointed with mysterious images whose captions are equally enigmatic– crochet mold showing an ideal triangle—whose angles sum to zero degrees—entitled A Field Guide to Hyperbolic Space. And I’m always reading poems.
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