I'm having a bit of writer-shock. I finished reading a great book by a great writer and then started reading a mediocre book by a sometimes gifted writer. It's hard to let it go, how disappointing it is that the book should be better than it is.
I saw The French Dispatch today. I will hold most of my reactions though probably not keep them. It was pleasant to see Anderson indulge his unique storytelling style once more, in a theater by myself. The parts sometimes exceeded the sum - there were scenes that were compelling, smart. The framework of the foreign reporting office was perhaps not strong enough. Or, maybe I was expecting something more complete to be the result, even though the film made no hint or promise of that. I will want to see it again at home.
I have a week and a half of work, then three weeks of vacation. Two of those weeks will be spent in Florida. The traditional family beach vacation. I may buy a beach hat. We will all wear sunscreen lotion. We will take him to the beach and to amusement parks. I wanted my son to see where I learned disdain for things.
This is a list of paragraphs. Setting down in form things that can not carry themselves. Too bored to fly, too sleepy to dream. I have nothing clever to say, though all day I have had clever thoughts. They have abandoned me, as my luck in the sequence of books. This paragraph does not belong on the list of paragraphs.
Tomorrow will be earlier and earlier than that.
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