September 7th
I'm travelling today, and reading Pynchon's Against The Day. This is the third time that I've begun this novel. Every time I find something to marvel at, but I can't bring myself to finish it. Maybe it's an insecurity that great writing can be exhausted, that however boundless its riches may seem with every dip into its pools, a day may come when the scenes become trite in their familiarity, and the lessons predictable or worse, irrelevant. But it is not today.