I just finished reading Frederick Exley’s A Fan’s Notes and, frankly, I’m a bit sad to be done with it. Sad because I felt so attached to  Exley: the drunken misadventures, the loneliness, the madness, and the longing. I sat on my front porch reading the last few chapters yesterday. I took a few breaks and a few drinks and stared up above the rooftops thinking about the language, the beauty of it. What a fantastic fucking read. I’ll miss you ol’ pal.

I gave myself a few moments to dry the tears of loss then picked up Junot Diaz’ The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I received the book as a gift sometime last year and found it in a pile of the-yet-unread. I’m a couple chapters in and feel pretty good about it. Junot won a Pulitzer for this baby. Yeah.