Moving on

Now that last night's lecture on Cheever and waspiness in general is done, I can move on in my reading.

Back, perhaps, to Rory Stewart's book about walking across Afghanistan, The Places in Between, which somehow cried out for a rest on the bedside table somewhere around page 55.

Forward, perhaps, to Rob Sheffield's Love is a Mix Tape, in a stacko on the radiator, written by a guy I went to college with but never really hung with whose wife died nastily young.

Sideways, conceivably to Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking, also about sudden spousal death, but on many a must read list and now, thanks to my thievery, on my chest of drawers.

Probably not to Emmanuel Berman's My Life as a Quant, in which the author is recounting being a physics grad student at Columbia in the 60s. That should be read at work.

Whichever way it flows, it's good to move on.