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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 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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.
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.
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Well, it might just be me.
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