I broke my brief moratorium on book buying and came home with two paperbacks. The first epigraph is from The Inhabited World by David Long, the second from The Feast of Love by Charles Baxter. I already know I love Baxter's novel because I've read it before. Long's book comes highly recommended and I'm looking forward to digging into it. And now, with all this Beckett being tossed around I'm tempted back to the dense weirdness of the Trilogy. Of course, that's a huge mind-twisting endeavor. It's the kind of book I imagine reading while holed up in a boggy Irish cabin tipped on whiskey. Aah, the perfect winter vacation.