I've had next to no time for reading. While I didn't manage to finish up my work to my satisfaction before the holiday, I did deliver it before people were at their desks this morning. And I am, however, well over halfway through the Globe and Mail's annual Christmas crossword puzzle (1193 clues).
I did manage to finish The West Pier, by Patrick Hamilton, while away, hiding in my mother's bathroom.
I have renewed enthusiasm for The Red and the Black. I'd've finished by now if it weren't for having to work, or that crossword puzzle lying around.
Received for Christmas:
Moral Disorder, by Margaret Atwood. You know, Atwood. This will be the mortar, or grout, between all the bricks I intend to read over the next few months. Or perhaps a spindly yet strong scaffolding. Or something.
Against the Day, by Thomas Pynchon, which scares me a little. I've never read Pynchon — is it OK to start here? It's this one that actually calls to me, having been released on my birthday, having an epigraph from Thelonius Monk, and featuring the Tunguska Event (which gets discussed in this household more often than in most, I'll bet).
Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea, by Guy Delisle, which I've never heard of. A graphic novel. Which I'm starting to read right now. Hah! — he takes 1984 with him.