Hit the 100-page mark on Salman Rushdie's THE SATANIC VERSES, my threshold for testing my appetite for any given book. It still feels like a drop in THE SATANIC VERSES' hellish waters, because it's not even a quarter of the way through and I'm not entirely sure what it's even about yet. Rushdie writes beautifully. It's all very poetic, but I haven't the slightest clue what the hell is going on most of the time. When I do have a grasp on the narrative, it is in fact captivating, but those pages are far and few between.
Just put the child down and my body is aching and my brain is dead and I cannot for the life of me see myself spending my extremely limited leisure time carrying on with THE SATANIC VERSES. Do I feel guilty for putting it aside? Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.
Need a palette cleanser of sorts, something easy that I know I'll enjoy. It's been years since I've read Elmore Leonard, who's always an easy bet for me. I think I'll read TOUCH, a battered old paperback of which I picked up in Denver for three bucks some years ago and have yet to crack open. Pages literally falling out, this may be the last time this particular copy will ever be read by anyone.