I'm loving The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby right now. I only have about 20 pages left, and I am so sad to see them go. It's combining my love for all things British, books about books, and—this summer—football (U.S. vernacular: soccer). Weirdly, I haven't read many of the books Hornby mentions in his Believer columns, but I have read J.D. Salinger and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and my share of Dickens, so it's sort of a connection regardless. It isn't literary, it's just so frickin' good.
And I haven't ever read another Nick Hornby book in my life, though I have seen the British version of "Fever Pitch" and "About a Boy" and even "High Fidelity."
In a bit, I am headed out into the rain to meet up for my friend Jenna's Barnes & Noble going-away party, but I am so tired that I will probably stay for about an hour and then come home and crash into bed. Because that usually goes so well for me. Scoff.
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