Saul Bellow's Ravelstein makes eighteen. I got my paper back with a bunch of positive feedback and nice "A". Awww yeah.
Tonight I'm either going to start on something new, maybe Cormac McCarthy's border trilogy or the last hundred pages of de Certeau, which Ravelstein would have hated; he had no interest in the study of society or the everyday. He was more into thought (Plato, Rousseau, and Celine, none of which have ever fallen into my gaze, but should, I suppose) and people's personalities and habits. He liked the wild ones, the gamblers, the addicts.
But first, dinner is in order. Chicken salad pitas will be served.
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