Since my last post I've read an issue of each of The Economist, The New Scientist, The New Yorker, the Utne Reader, OK Magazine, and two issues of Eclectic Reading.
I have otherwise been reading the Goncourt diaries of the Parisian literary scene of the late 19th century. It's been a ripping good read -- various elderly women are 'mummified', the endless inane conversations at glitterati dinners, Gustave Flaubert's taste for stories of bad bodily odors, complete with fainting doctors and the color and viscosity of effluents. I'm laughing out loud at the description of eye liner on men and wrinkled breasts on women, and catty remarks about writers more successful than the author. Unbelievable, reminiscent of Saint-Simon's portraits, and Proust's gossipy novels, but much much more acerbic. I must be in a rotten mood, I'm loving it all.
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