It’s so hot.
First day of the sidewalk sale is done.
Only three to go.
It’s wasn’t so bad but, the heat was atrocious.
I have a headache.
A woper of a headache.
Bookish people born in the Great White North are not meant for heat and sun.
I finished the Philip Roth.
My Life As A Man.
Not my cup of tea.
Unbelievably self absorbed.
Very well written.
It goes on and on about the toxic relationship between the protagonist and his wife.
It’s supposed to be Strindberg like.
Never read Strindberg,
not feeling the urge.
Also, the narrative is confusing.
I kept wondering,
Is this the novel? Or a short story within the novel?
Once you give it a couple of chapters its OK.
The man is a pro,
but, my problem?
I didn’t care much about the protagonist.
He was both protagonist and antagonist,
if that makes sense.
His wife a caricature bitch.
I was not really engaged.
I finished it because I promised myself I would.
The Counterlife also by Roth.
If it doesn’t do more for me,
I’m giving up on Roth.