Thursday, April 10, 2003

“TWO HUNDRED HOURS, darkness, the Gunnar Myrdal : all around the old man, running water sang mysteriously in metal pipes.”

Economical in length, lyrical in execution, that’s my favorite sentence in Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, a book whose cover always fascinated me, but whose predictable lack of softcover edition kept me from purchasing it upon release. I remedied this last quarter and 566 pages later, gentle reader, I can safely say that this finely-wrought book deserves the praise lavished by many.

I also worked my way to the thrilling conclusion of this game today. As was the case with The Corrections, this game stands proudly above its competitors.

And then, as dinner came to a close and as the thermometer took an ungainly spill, I went with some friends to the opening night of Graffiti Dancers. The admission fee proved a pittance for the production and despite the lackluster emceeing and atrocious strobe light usage, the dancers emerged charged and unscathed.

One could certainly make a case for the fallibility of humans and whatnot, but damn it if our species doesn’t produce some fine shiznit from time to time.