Got Patience?
Mr. Goodwrench convulsed me today when he declared, regarding his irresponsible but lovable twenty-something shop hand, Dougan, "I just hope I can get through the next few years without killing him for being young." (Mr. Goodwrench is a stately thirty-two, and wretched Doogie has found in him a reliable nursemaid of sorts. He'll go to great lengths to keep Doogie- he's a good mechanic and a nice kid, despite his vices.)
There's an angry wind from the south tonight, sweeping down off the solid granite face of the snow-clad Uintas and bringing winter with it. I was reading a John Irving novel on the couch a while ago with all three dogs piled snoring at my feet, when a particularly baleful gust howled across the yard and made the girls bark like mad. It nearly blew me into the open hatch of the reservoir I was checking this afternoon. After nine years of driving supremely unaerodynamic Monte, I love how the Cadillac effortlessly sails through the wind like a hot knife through butter.
This relentless fatigue is really getting to me. Winter is already getting to me, and it's not even here.
There's an angry wind from the south tonight, sweeping down off the solid granite face of the snow-clad Uintas and bringing winter with it. I was reading a John Irving novel on the couch a while ago with all three dogs piled snoring at my feet, when a particularly baleful gust howled across the yard and made the girls bark like mad. It nearly blew me into the open hatch of the reservoir I was checking this afternoon. After nine years of driving supremely unaerodynamic Monte, I love how the Cadillac effortlessly sails through the wind like a hot knife through butter.
This relentless fatigue is really getting to me. Winter is already getting to me, and it's not even here.
posted by A at
11:21 PM
5 Comments:
Nosy literati want to know: Which Irving novel?
I checked out A Widow for one Year from the worthless County library because the highly recommended A Prayer for Owen Meany is on order from Amazon, and I had to pass the time. I also picked up another Annie Proulx book just to be fair. I have to impatiently ask if you've gotten around to Accordian Crimes yet, and, being nosy myself, did Until I Find You turn out to be worth toting all the way to Seattle?
I liked Widow quite a lot when I read it, and I never make a left turn now without remembering the book's very important traffic-safety lesson. (There. I hope I wrote that without potentially spoiling anything.)
Sadly, I got only to the midpoint of Until I Find You while riding the train. I've been enjoying it, though it doesn't quite rate among the best Irving works (Owen Meany being my very favorite, of course). Even his lesser efforts make me appreciate the way he constructs his novels, though.
I have about 100 pages to go, and I've been leaning toward Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin as my follow-up. But a promise is a promise, and I should probably consider pushing Proulx to the front of the line. I've probably put her off long enough.
By the way: do you have any idea how her name is pronounced? I've been saying "Prool" and assuming the 'x' is silent, but I honestly don't have a clue.
"Prew," rhymes with shrew, which is the animal she most resembles when speaking to the press.
I know what you mean A, on Monday it was harder than hell for me to head East across the Bay Bridge and back to Wyoming knowing full well what is ahead for us...
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