Took a break from A Brief History of Seven Killings (will I return to it, I'm not sure yet) to start rereading Wittgenstein's Mistress for xth time (at least 4 or 5 I would think). There are some authors I seem to always be able to return to, especially Markson and Queneau. Just grab one of their books off the shelf and I know I'll have an enjoyable, interesting read for a little while (neither wrote long works). My Markson books in particular have little underlines and very brief comments in the margins that I put in on previous readings, mostly noting references and connections within and between his books. I never was very comfortable writing in books: it seems like marring them, and also after I've done it, it is often embarrassing and distracting to come back later and see what I chose to annotate. But Markson's books (especially the later ones, starting with this one, have a mysterious element to them, like there is some secret I might reveal if I read them often and close enough. I don't know that I actually believe that, but it's the feeling I get as I read.
Lianne liked the new bedside tables, so at some point finishing will happen.
I've kept up this daily journalling for over 2 weeks now.