Tea: Chinese Melon Seed.
Music:
Time: Night.
In a bid to clear my head today, I took myself to Barnes and Noble to spend some more of the Christmas gift card.
In the end, I gravitated to the clearance bin (largely because I don't have a gigantic amount left on said card). There, I found E.R. Eddison's "The Worm Ouroboros."
I took this as a sign that, having devoured George MacDonald's "Phantastes" and "Lilith" already this year, my pre-Tolkien fantasy reading should continue with this book.
I'm 51 pages in, and enjoying the trip so far. Eddison manages to be more affected yet less precious than MacDonald -- although I've yet to see anything as emotionally charged as some of MacDonald's writing, particularly the broken globe segment in "Phantastes."
Anyway ... it's an engaging read in a genre I enjoy. Between this brand of fantasy and Christopher Moore's whacked-out scenarios, I'm getting a good supply of unreality these days.
Never a bad thing, that. Not in my world, or what passes for it.
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