The last two books I've read, or tried to read in the case of the Roman one, had scenes or descriptions of people torn apart, one by animals and one by war, with their "nine miles of tubing" scattered over the landscape, preceded and followed by scenes of unutterable misery. Such prose is probably therapeutic in some way for the writers, and that realism is real is indisputable. But a couple of vicarious doses is about all I can take for a while. I need an antidote, maybe a little bit of Lewis Carroll.
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Yesterday I saw that bobtailed squirrel up close. That is one weird-looking animal. Its face and underside are streaked black and gray, and the rest is either black or charcoal gray. The little old ratty-looking tail is hardly enough for him to lean back on. Wish I could get a photo of him. Or her.
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