A few nights ago, I finished a really good book, Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris. It's a "work novel," set in a failing advertising company in Chicago, and pretty funny in numerous spots. (There's a killer line on page 189 that anyone who's done any sort of authentic or inauthentic "creative" work will appreciate.) More than the humor, though, there's also a surprising quantity and quality of pathos to the novel, depictions of the special sorts of weird emotion connected with doing unremarkable work in an unremarkable office. Highly recommended.
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150 Hours of Winter
I want to spend 150 hours outside this winter. Here's what remains right now:
I was last outside for
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