Finished the Doctorow book this afternoon after a decent brunch and a trip to Russell's Books with Christian. Picked up a book of Robin Skelton ballads and two Ray Bradburys. I tried to read Natural History by Justina Robson but the whole affair didn't quite go off with the proper bang and I'm finding her prose too dense and cold in this particular book so I might start one of the Bradburys instead. S is for Space and Something Wicked This Way Comes. The whole thing is really rather familiar -- too many books. There's always too many books and they spawn other books, mutate and multiply. My library is alive, perhaps, and reaches out to swallow the world in its pulpy teeth.
Enough! I'm going to go consume sentences and spit out other sentences into the notebook with dim lights and the hum of the boarding house...