Friends of mine were visiting from Minnesota this week. Both of them are incredibly talented writers & lit citizens & conversation inevitably turned to what we’re reading. I was somewhat embarrassed to tell them that for the last month, in addition to some short story collections, I’ve been reading the Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante. I don’t know why I felt embarrassed. They are incredible. I just started the fourth & final novel, The Story of the Lost Child, & I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do after I leave Elena & Lila & their neighborhood in Naples. I don’t know if I’ve been this consumed by a book series as an adult (except maybe A Song of Ice & Fire). Believe the Ferrante hype.
Still firmly in the Breaking Bad rewatch. We finished Season 2 last night, which I think is the roughest season pretty much because of one episode. “Peekaboo” (the episode where Jesse tries to get money back from the addicts that jumped Skinny Pete) might be the most harrowing 47 minutes of television ever.
I haven’t been home much this week, but yesterday, Ian & I did sit & listen to The Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun.” Our best man played an instrumental version of that song at our wedding. We’d been having a hard day; both of us feeling frustrated with our creative pursuits (Ian drumming, me writing), snapping at each other. When he put it on, it felt like “I love you.”