Yesterday I read the New Yorker cover to cover, a collection of short stories by Miranda July, and I finished off the satire of colonialism by Henri Crouzat. The satire wore thin as the pages went on -- the plot was thinner than the portraits were biting, I found. But it was still excellent. I don't really get the short story form, and I found there was a lot of sexual content to July, who is supposed to be a phenomenal artist. I find I'd rather see one of her movies than read another of her short stories.
I also returned to my survey of the philosophical works of Descartes yesterday, something I started before my trip to Italy but left lying there while I plowed through a number of books from interlibrary loan. That's the best thing I read.
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