I'm having an extremely quiet weekend. Inexplicably, the huge majority of my usual online friends have lately vanished for indeterminate but apparently very long time periods, and I'm missing all of thembut most of all arsenothelys, who I'd really like to talk to right now and am missing quite intolerablyso I currently have no one to talk to, and even going on AIM, which usually brings crowds of dozens crashing down all around me immediately, doesn't provoke a single word from anyone this weekend. But it's not that bad reallyI'm still stubbornly refusing to ever take the initiative and message anyone else myself, and if I were all that desperate for conversation I expect I'd probably get around to learning that hitherto unacquired skill. Instead I'm just settling into an unexpectedly silent weekend, spending almost all of it in bed with a book.
The particular book I've spent the weekend in bed with is called The Hotel New Hampshire, by John Irving, which was highly recommended to me by Jeremy when he saw it lying around at my apartment, and his recommendation drastically increased the speed with which I got around to reading it. I'm definitely impressed with it. In particular by its treatment of rape. I could swear the author himself was raped. If he wasn't, then he's got some kind of world-class genius for figuring out how to write about it.Noeven if he was raped, he's got some kind of world-class genius for figuring out how to write about it. I'm definitely impressed.
And now I shall go crawl back under the covers with it. Currently I'm about two thirds of the way through.