Not much news, I'm preoccupied with pleasant things. Just a quick warning: Clive James's memoirs are crap and will make you want to hit him. Memoirs are difficult. Something like Robert Hughes, who has a style I like when he's writing about things that aren't him, and once he writes about him it's so fucking lame it can hardly make it across the room when I throw it. With Clive James, I like the essays and whatnot he does for the BBC or whatever from time to time - but his memoirs = crap. Also, Clive is a retarded name.
In other book news, Ulysses is indeed proving too boy for me at the moment - may have to wait to plug on until I have a hormonal shift.
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