a heap of broken images.
Found myself reading Pattern Recognition, in the original hardcover. The differences between the hardcover's cover art and trade paper's are so subtle, and it's a shame that they completely ruin the effect, because the book itself is polished and quietly masterful. Maybe I'm only imagining the changes.

Prior, I read the Rolling Stone Hunter Thompson tribute issue, and it was amazing. One of the best gifts I've gotten in recent memory. I understood a bit better, and derived, oddly enough, some comfort from having known some of it intuitively.

Before that, I watched a documentary on Warren Zevon. The filming started when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It's morbid, but funny, and shows his personality brilliantly. He's dead now. I knew that, but still I found myself emotionally affected.

The day before, I read Peasant Fires, an account of a 15th-century German heretic. Insightful and charming, with the correct balance between historical fact and narrative force. Recommended.

That morning, I watched Double Suicide, a black-and-white Japanese film based on a famous bunraku play. Beautiful and surreal. (I know the word is overused. By 'surreal,' I mean that much of it consists of literal depictions that most movies would leave on a symbolic plane. It merges dream and narrative with artistry that I can only imagine derives, somehow, from Japanese traditional forms.)

Immediately before, I reread Larry Niven's Ringworld, which is one of the classic sf books. Holds up surprisingly well, and has some ideas that are still so expansive as to grasp and fixate the reader. I also felt a deep kinship with the main character, which I can only assume to be due to my addled state.

It's funny, but I seem to feel a renewed impulse to enjoy media.