fuel for the fire

I went book-shopping this week with a new friend at a great place and got some things to keep me company during the long November evenings. I finished the Petrushevskaya in one gulp and am still reeling - her stories are like sharp, brilliant little stones that lodge in your gullet. They are so strange and timeless that it almost seems impossible that one person made them up - they feel like folktales, dragged up from the belly of the earth and passed from person to person until diamond-hard. Good stuff.

I'm also looking forward to tackling this.

November is a good month for spooky stories and fat books, I think.