Dear husband calls me during the middle of my writing group's meeting. "I picked up a book from the library for you," he says. "Tell me what this means..." He proceeded to speak in tongues. I think he's been tippling in the port a bit early. "Nevermind," he says. "I know if I wanted to read this book, I'd have to listen to Brad Pitt in Trainspotting first."
The book is Finnegan's Wake. I think my husband has gone crazy. It is, after all, just a book.
Yes. A maddening, infuriating novel of hellish proportions that has forced me to resign my MENSA membership. I flipped through chapters, looking for some desperate clue to unlock its anagrams. Nuttin' honey.
Perhaps I need my literature spoon fed, at least in English. It is a sad day for this book lover.