I make a point of reading all of the Pulitzer (fiction) winners. I was nearly a year late on this one, and my goal is arbitrary anyway. Strout’s book hits somewhere between novel and thematically-linked short stories, and some make me want to go out and wail at the cold moon and some make me want to go stare at the ocean off of the coast of Maine and some make me want to stop reading the goddamned things. I think: worth reading. I think: I am sad now.

Maybe it’s the beginning of the end if I’m starting to count technical reads as reading accomplishments. But Crockford is a demi-god of sorts in my circles, and demi-gods are abstract concepts and abstract concepts lead to good literature. Or something. Plus now, my JavaScript situation isn’t as dire as it was before and I’m slightly less embarrassed around my colleagues.

Pish for thee, Iceland dog, thou prick-eared cur of Iceland! It is telling that that is mostly what I remember about this marshal history, in which Falstaff bites it.

Kind of embarrassed that I read this. Should have gathered from its nearly-unanimous five-star Amazon rating that it might devolve into “and then I found Jesus” after a heartwarming redemption after a whole lot of really horrible things happened to the protagonist, who really existed. I’ll shelve this next to Chicken Soup for the Soul and call it good.

I made David listen to this childhood favorite of mine, an autobiography of the author Roald Dahl (though Dahl claims it’s not an autobiography, but okay, sure). Best part? Possibly near then end, when he refers to himself as a “hot-bottomed fag” in a completely innocent way, which seems five hundred ways impossible. But it really happens. Also, everything about Roald Dahl makes me go awwwwwwwwww and get all dreamy-faced.

Wait, there’s seven more books in the “cycle?” Dear Baroque Cycle, Please bring back funny/interesting Neal Stephenson. I hear these get better. I dearly hope they do.