More on About Grace

It's 11 o'clock and I've got heavyweight boxing on the television on mute while I listen to the Beatles. Waiting for the NHL awards show to come on. Yes, that's right I'm subjecting myself to fucking boxing to watch an awards show that is not only not live, but truly terrible. Seriously, the NHL awards aren't at all interesting. And I already know the results. I think there's something wrong with this picture. And, as of 11:14 it has begun. Anyway...

I read About Grace fairly recently and it's a beautifully written book. Not a book I would recommend. Not a book I enjoyed all that much. I'd even go so far as to say I found it boring at times. But a beautifully written and evocative book.

Dust shifting and floating above the bed, ten thousand infinitesimal threads, red and blue, like floating atoms. Brush it off your shelves, sweep it off your baseboards. Sandy dragged sheets of tin across the basement floor. Winkler cleaned the house, fought back disorder in all its forms, the untuned engine, the unraked lawn. All the chaos of the world hovering just outside their backyard fence, creeping through the knotholes; the Chagrin River flashing by back there, behind the trees. Wipe your feet, wash your clothes, pay your bills. Watch the sky; watch the news. Make your forecasts. His life might have continued like this.

And back to the NHL awards, where we've now moved on to the world's-worst-jokes section. I'll leave you to contemplate just how not funny those are.