Every time I open a new book of fiction, there’s a part of me that hopes for the improbable: to encounter something new, something utterly original. So as you can imagine, I’m let down a lot. But sometimes I get lucky.
It’s been two weeks since I finished reading J. Robert Lennon’s Pieces for the Left Hand, but here’s this little gem of a book, still sitting on my desk. I don’t know when I’ll return this paperback to its designated shelf, but it won’t be anytime soon, for I keep going back to it, reading one of the 100 anecdotes in this collection at random, smiling and chuckling along the way.
A review I wrote a couple of weeks ago, actually. But the book’s still right here, on my desk.
The second day of the Ann Arbor Book Festival is history, and so am I. Tomorrow I’m doing my best Willie Nelson imitation, on the road again, trekking from Michigan back to New Jersey. On the drive over, I listened to William Shatner’s extremely entertaining Up Till Now, his autobiography. I still have a couple of hours to go, and after that’s done, I’ll need to kill another seven hours or so with another audiobook.
For my sloth-like slowdown, I’d like to 