Put up the last bookcase I bought, completing the set of 3. Reveling in the aesthetic pleasure of arranging the books just-so: facing the ones with the best covers, placing my favorites at eye level: an immediate tonic upon entrance.

Mowed and weeded, too, on this unseasonably cool day. Was afraid I'd stumbled around in some poison ivy and had my arms wrapped in towels for an hour or so until the rash went away.

Pale Fire features the most unreliable narrator I've ever encountered, whose pathologic obsession with himself ranges beyond humor into malevolence.

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