portent.

Just though i'd mention briefly the passing of Frank McCourt, author of (among other things) the 'memoir'* Angela's Ashes, a piece of reading of which i'm very fond. From what i gather, this book seems to polarize readers to a great degree. i just remember being unable to put it down, and feeling very connected and drawn in to his world via the writing style; it was one of my first encounters with written dialogue sans quotation marks, which i rejoiced upon discovering. Almost everyone in the book is a sad case, to one degree or another; one, an over-alcoholic father capable of scant few redeeming acts (the occasion on which he sucked the killing phlegm out of his infant son's nose being one that completely floored me. i will never forget it.).

In any case, if you hated the book, that's your impression, and you're entitled to it. If you loved it, i am right there with ya. And if you haven't cracked the spine yet, i hereby strongly encourage you to do so (assuming you have a few heartstrings left). He is a magnificent story-teller. May Irish oyes smile upon you, Frank, and thanks for leaving your story behind.

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In other news: the longest full solar eclipse of the 21st century occurred today (not visible from N. America, of course! zounds.), and Nat found the larva of a ladybird near our bathroom sink... fine and lovely omens those are, i do decree.

*i find a memoir to be a very malleable interpretation of "facts", or "events". The very term suggests that any words strung together by the author are at the liquid mercy of their own personal memory. This is part of the human condition. Otherwise they would be called "autobiographies", and as we all know, even then the truth can be diluted indeed. i mention this because a lot of the negative reviews i have heard about his book tend to sit pretty squarely in the "well, he obviously embellished" column. Who among us hasn't?