Well, to my sorrow, Cecelia Dart-Thornton has spent way too much time detailing our hero's journey across the forests of her world. I mean, come on, 220 pages and she hasn't accomplished anything? And it's a 500 page book? Gah. But since I'm frustrated with it (and I guess I did only start reading this thing on Thursday so I am still making good progress), I'm back in the Proust, and am now at page 936 (he's off the paintings and has just met Albertine). 1018 is the end, and I'm so close now! I'm being discouraged by how heavy it is to carry this thing around, though.

Meanwhile, of course, I'm fiddling with some other books. Minor Operatic Disasters, picked up for free at the bookstore near Putney Bridge tube, had shadowdaddy and I giggling like loons Sunday night; it's very slim and I'll polish it off in about 15 more minutes. The London in Maps book (not sure of the exact title) that J picked up for me at the British Museum is proving very interesting and a good introduction to the history of England; I'm taking my sweet time with it, mostly leaving reading it to the moments after my contacts have come out, when I can actually see the teeny tiny print on the maps reproduced in its pages.

Last night's play had me pull out Not Since Carrie: Forty Years of Broadway Musical Flops. I only read the intro, but it was very promising - respectful of the work, able to see the beauty in the mud, but still mean where deserved. I'm also kind of picking through Reigning Cats and Dogs, and it makes me wonder, why are so many of these mass-market non-fiction books written seemingly as if for 14 year olds? I want better! (In this case, I want through-lines and more research, but no luck.)