Just got back from Trader Joes. Being outside, communing with my fellow human beings, was thrilling. They were all so beautiful-- from the bent and wobbling geriatrics, the fresh-faced college students (so proud of being adults), the hairy smelly throngs of natural fibered hippies and the apple-cheeked babies-- they were all there, at Trader Joes. Even getting into the ol' rocket was exciting, all the controls were where I'd left them, and the beloved garbage, too. The empty thermos bottle, the gloves, the oil-change work order, the superfluious driving directions. It felt like I had been gone so long.
My heart nearly burst.
Speaking of, I finished the Cohen novel, finally! All 974 pages. I almost threw it across the room in Epic, End of Novel Frustration. I was wondering how he was going to end it. Now I know. I won't give it away. I should have seen it coming, by gollyness. I feel like I had been had... caring for those stupid characters, following their every move (and thought and bowel movement... damn stream-of-consciousness writers leave nothing to the imagination). How could he be so callous!
It just ended, too. No epilogue, no author's bio, no ISBN history. Nothing. no colophon. no explanation about the history of the font.
just the last sentence, followed by a period and the back cover, and not even a blank page!
At least in a movie, you get the rolling credits to decompress.
I am done with it, if anyone else wants to borrow it. I'd love to discuss it with someone... a sort of late closure. Please?