Yesterday was a day of change – I thought only for my daughter-in-law who had very extreme and extensive dental work – but I am the one who KNOWS it is the same person, but whose eyes are telling them differently. I am amazed at my difficulty of listening to my mind and invalidating the information from my eyes.

But wait, this new person just asked about Wal-Mart. Augggggghhhhhhhhhhh.

I am going to sit in the car and read, but not that Dostoevsky book, The Adolescent, which Cameron has pushed on me. I think it sucks. He says, “Grandma, you insisted I read books – The Eagle Has Landed, The Day of the Jackal, To Kill a Mockingbird . . . ”

Cameron, Cameron . . . that was to get you to feel the pleasures of a story well-told – to see what people could do with English. It is not the story; it is the telling of it. It has always been the words. Where, where in a translation of Dostoevsky do you find a phrase that echoes in your mind?

So, I guess after all these years of reading, I finally realize I don’t care for the story, but the way it is expressed. That is why I can so easily flip to the last pages to see what the ending is when the writing is lacking.

Some people think that is sacrilegious; I think it is good sense.