Heads on top of stakes became angels around me

I did not get to Death in Venice (1971). It was sold out, even with a membership; I had a very delicious sujek roll-up and jallab from Garlic 'n Lemons and went home to watch the first half of Ingmar Bergman's The Magician (1958) and talk with rushthatspeaks. Insert some noncommittal, slightly disappointed noise here: it could have been worse, but it was still very cold. Earlier in the afternoon, thanks to the massive sale I didn't know the Harvard Book Store was having when I walked in, I finally acquired a copy of Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory (1984), which I have never owned despite loving the novel since the summer I read it in installments in the Book Rack on Mass. Ave. every time I passed the store on my way home from summer-teaching Latin at Belmont Hill. (Between the day I finished it and my next teaching day, someone bought it before I could; I never saw it in used book stores since. This has always felt vaguely significant, but mostly annoying.) I would have bought The Crow Road if I'd seen a copy; I fear I'm going to kick myself for not also picking up A Song of Stone (1997), because its first few pages reminded me of both Angela Carter and J.G. Ballard and yet I left it on the shelf. Chances it will still be there tomorrow: if previous experience of Iain Banks is anything to go by, nil. I'll probably still look.