evelyn_b | Entries tagged with biographies

What I'm No Longer Reading for the Time Being

Last night I was at the bar, complaining about Gravity's Rainbow, and one of my friends said something like, "You know, you can always stop reading a book" -- a true statement about books and one of their most underrated virtues. I tried to explain about the 99 Novels and how I only had twelve left to go and if I made it through 100% of Henry Williamson's Hitler Phase and the egregious slow-mo mudpit merry-go-round that was Giles Goat-Boy then I CERTAINLY was not going to be defeated by Thomas Pynchon, a novelist whom many people actually like! But then I thought about it for a minute and decided that Gravity's Rainbow and I had gotten off on the wrong foot, and the best thing to do was to put it on the shelf for a week or so, read some other things, and try again later. So Gravity's Rainbow has been temporarily replaced by Lanark on my "currently reading" shelf.

What I've Finished Reading

Sophie's Choice was so different from what I expected that I couldn't hate it even if I hated it, which I didn't. It's about the young William Styron (he goes by "Stingo," a boarding-school nickname, for purposes of fictionalization, but beyond that there is no attempt to differentiate him from William Styron, except that one of them is a novelist character in a novel and the other is just a novelist) is fascinated by/in love with his neighbor at the boardinghouse, Sophie, and her brilliant but dangerously unstable boyfriend Nathan, and for a little while they become an inseparable group, going to the beach together and feeding Stingo's imagination with story ideas and dreams of lust. Most of the time, Nathan is exhausting but friendly, but sometimes he becomes violently abusive and irrational. During these episodes, Stingo takes Sophie under his wing, gets her drunk, and hears the true story of her life, which is constantly under revision as if she were - get it? a character in the process of being invented by Stingo. This impression is strengthened by the improbable level of detail indulged in every time there is a blowjob in the story.

In the end, soon after Sophie has revealed or had imagined upon her the whole messy story of her time at Auschwitz, and Stingo's novelistic instinct or possibly real life has forced her into a series of more and more unbearable moral dilemmas, Sophie and Nathan are corralled by the power of revision into a dismal cliche of an ending worthy of our ultra-callow aspiring novelist narrator (or possibly real life, which also runs to annoying cliches). This frees Stingo to muse on the damnable difficulty of it all and to write several books. He reports a resolution made in his diary: "Someday I'll understand Auschwitz," but of course he is never going to understand Auschwitz; he is barely ever going to understand his own horniness, which he is much better at writing about.

In addition to this famous book, there are at least six other books called Sophie's Choice. Most of them are romance or erotica, but one is about a little dog who longs to see the world beyond her backyard.

What I'm Reading Now

My brother sent me an unsolicited biography of Leonardo da Vinci (by Walter Isaacson) along with Sophie's Choice and Gravity's Rainbow - it's ok so far! Physically, it's an odd book, with thick glossy pages (probably chosen for the sake of all the color reproductions), and the author has Opinions About Genius. But so far it's highly relaxing.

Also relaxing is Courting Anna, a historical mystery by Cate Simon about a female lawyer in 1880s Montana who gets mixed up with a charming outlaw. There's not a tremendous amount of tension (though there is a very brief murder mystery!) but it wears its research well and manages to acknowledge both the limitations and the unexpected possibilities of the past without being preachy. And a likable romance hero is a golden rarity for me - I'm sure I've just been reading the wrong books, but there you go. This is the right book. Jeremiah and his partner/best friend from orphanage days are both delightful in a low-key way, and I'm happy to root for them in all their endeavors.

What I Plan to Read Next

Lanark! It's not Gravity's Rainbow, so I'm looking forward to it enormously.

Not terribly much to report today. For those of you who like long lists of books, there will be a "books read in 2018" post soon.

What I've Finished Reading

I finished the last book of 2018, The Charioteer (by Mary Renault) and the first book of 2019, Another Country by James Baldwin.

What these books have in common: sad gay men with problems. Otherwise, they are pretty different from one another. In The Charioteer the question of who Laurie ends up with is of paramount importance, because Laurie is young but also because it's just that kind of book. In Another Country it doesn't matter who anyone ends up with, because none of us can know ourselves and we're all doomed to go on tearing each other to ribbons like so many Edwards Scissorhands. The characters in Another Country, like James Baldwin, are very concerned with the impossibility of authentic interpersonal relationships in America, a nation built on hypocrisy. I am not convinced they wouldn't find a way to disappoint themselves and one another in any country on earth, but that isn't a defense of America. I don't know exactly how I feel about Another Country, but it sucked me right in and I appreciated its messiness.

Holiday Book Gifts

The Cat Who Had 14 Tales (a short story collection by Lilian Jackson Braun), A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami - another ubiquitous writer whom I've never gotten around to reading - Dostoevsky: The Miraculous Years: 1865-1871 by Joseph Frank. I started the latter on the plane back home and it has been fantastically difficult to put down. Frank's readings of Crime and Punishment are almost as good as reading Crime and Punishment. Dos has just married his second wife (the famous stenographer) and the Dostoevskys have gone to Germany in an attempt to save their marriage from the stress of his judgmental in-laws. Unfortunately, Germany is Roulette Country and Dos is a compulsive gambler. :(

Also In the Vicinity

Pale Fire is very silly and fun so far - exactly the kind of self-indulgence I can never help but like. An academic exile of Ruritanian background has generously stepped forward to edit his neighbor's last long poem, but surprise! his notes are mostly long stories about himself. The Innocent Moon is getting a little tedious now that Phillip has time to think and reflect in his diary, but not so much that I want to stop reading. I bought (at John K. King Books, the enormous and dusty four-story bibliocosmos in Detroit) Last Things, the very last C.P. Snow in 99 Novels.

What I've Finished Reading

I didn't spend all of The Mansion in a Mink-induced panic because once Mink is tucked away in Parchman, the book goes meandering along down non-Mink trails that are sometimes interesting in their own right and sometimes not. There's a kind of tepid convoluted love story and a character - Flem's daughter, who went away East and lost her hearing in the Spanish Civil War - who should be a fascinating character but isn't - and I don't know if it's because Faulkner is shy about doing his brambly interiority thing on female characters or if he just didn't feel at home with this particular one.

We come back to Mink at the end, of course. Cousin Flem, "a son of a bitch's son of a bitch," has done all he could to stop Mink coming back to Jefferson, but you can't stop a man who's got nothing to lose. Then a truckload of symbolic baggage is unloaded directly onto our grateful heads, as we always knew it would be. Immediately after I closed the last page, all the minor irritants and confusions of the long non-Mink middle section evaporated. Even the sense that I didn't fully understand the context, though factually true (this is the last book in a trilogy, it turns out) dried up and blew away. The irritants etc. came trickling back later, but it took a while.

On Sunday I had some spare time so I went to the nearest bookstore, had a very expensive and mediocre coffee drink, and read all of Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett. I didn't mean to read it all. I meant to read about 75 pages and leave the rest for another day, but there were no chapter breaks and one thing led to another.

My greatest disappointment was that even though Pratchett dedicates the book to the many readers who sent in new verses of The Hedgehog Song, no new verses of The Hedgehog Song appear in Witches Abroad. This hardly seems right.

What I'm Reading Now

Way back in the early days of this record, I read a book called Boswell's Presumptuous Task, the totally engaging biography of a man who set out to write the world's best biography and succeeded, while failing at every single other thing. What I've finally just started reading now is the biography he wrote, The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell. It's ENORMOUS and as of page 60 or so I am not disappointed at all. Samuel Johnson was a well-known Tory writer and entertaining grump in his fifties when the young Boswell attached himself to him like a hapless clap-ridden baby sloth to a Bigfoot, or, if you prefer, like Plato to Socrates. He spent the rest of Johnson's life writing down everything Johnson ever said or did on the bold assumption that posterity would appreciate it. I can't speak for the rest of us, but as far as I'm concerned he was right. More on this later.

Also later: B for Burglar, Too Many Cooks, Inspector Cadaver, and maybe the new issue of Poetry; I'm still behind on everything.

What Interlibrary Loan Hasn't Found For Me Yet

I'm still waiting for Goldfinger by Ian Fleming! Come on, interlibraries, bring me my spy pulp so I can cross it off the 99 Novels list!

What I've Finished Reading

Aphra Behn: The English Sappho by George Woodcock, another biography by a guy who isn't going to bother trying to hide his crush on his subject. Why should he? Aphra Behn is great. It's a lot of fun just to get a guided tour through the (to me) very weird world of late 17th century England, and to feel as if I can almost, sort of, barely tell the difference between the shoddy literary hackwork of the day and the genuine breath-of-fresh-air wit. Woodcock's a little too easily impressed at times, and too ready to jump to conclusions about which rumors would or wouldn't be in character for Behn, from whom we have acres of mostly fictional words, but hardly anything near a complete record. Sometimes it's clearly just his crush talking. He's also needlessly impressed by paradoxes that aren't really - for example, he expects his readers to be unable to reconcile Behn's commonsense feminism with her support of an absolute monarchy, and I can't see why he would.

First Book in Physiology and Hygiene is a 1908 elementary textbook about - well, just what it says. I fully expected the sermons on the evils of tobacco and alcohol, but the dire warning against corn syrup took me by surprise. I knew there was an anti-corn-syrup campaign, but I didn't expect it to have begun until sometime around 1965.

I'd like to say something about What You Are Getting Wrong About Appalachia, a much newer book, but it'll have to wait until next week (or whenever I get around to catching up.

What I'm Reading Now

I'm really enjoying Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal by Christopher Moore. I've been seeing it around for years and finally bought it at the library book sale, thinking it would be a good companion read for Norman Mailer's The Gospel According to the Son. After two thousand-odd years as a corpse, Biff is unceremoniously resurrected by a dunderheaded angel and bundled off to a Ramada Inn to write a new gospel. It's earthy but not actually impious, if you care about the distinction. Some of the jokes haven't aged well at all and some of them are ageless, and then there's a lot in between that are half and half. Biff's a good buddy for all his teasing, and Josh is a touching and frustrating future messiah - a new Easter classic, only about a week too late.

What I Plan to Read Next

Other books I bought at the library sale: a beautiful first edition of Hen's Teeth and Horse's Toes by Stephen Jay Gould, a three-novel Sue Grafton omnibus feat. menaces D through F, a Maigret novella, and a gigantic picture book about Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald called The Romantic Egoists, which I shouldn't have bought at all except that I'm an unbelievably easy sucker for facsimiles of postcards with people's handwriting all over them. And the next batch of 99 Novels, which I haven't even started yet. (I was crushed to find that Goldfinger is missing, presumed lost, so my discovery of Ian Fleming will have to be delayed).

Where, though? It's a good question.

What I've Finished Reading

About three-fourths of the way through A Double Life, a wonderful thing happens. With a completely straight face, the author J. Michael Lennon appears at a party, in the third person, as "J. Michael Lennon, a young professor at the University of Illinois." Maybe it's not that wonderful, but I laughed and laughed. This shout-out to Mailer's "third-person personal" is all the funnier for being apparently egoless. Lennon appears a few times throughout the rest of the book, with no attention called to the fact that he is The Author of the Book You Hold In Your Hands, Dear Reader.

I enjoyed it a lot, though my fondness for Mailer is pretty abstract. Eventually I'll read his novels about Jesus and Hitler, though probably not Harlot's Ghost (the 1,100-page CIA novel that ends with the words TO BE CONTINUED). I followed with detached amusement his not-very-deft attempts to feud with Michiko Kakutani and be a Hollywood Intellectual. I didn't find his claims to totally genuinely 100% love all women as convincing as Balzac's. There is one really sad and nerve-wracking story in here, and that's the year Mailer tries to engineer a writing and party-going career for his paroled prison correspondent, Jack Abbot.

Mailer on Mailer in The Spooky Art:

Writers aren't taken seriously anymore, and a large part of the blame must go to the writers of my generation, most certainly including myself. We haven't written the books that should have been written. We've spent too much time exploring ourselves. We haven't done the imaginative work that could have helped define America, and as a result, our average citizen does not grow in self-understanding. We just expand all over the place, and this spread is about as attractive as collapsed and flabby dough on a stainless steel table.

You can always count on Mailer to give too much credit to himself even when he's trying to be self-critical.

What I'm Reading Now

If I'd picked up To Shape the Dark at a bookstore or library instead of ordering it, I might have balked at its multiple fancy fonts and slightly irritating introduction and put it straight back on the shelf. I would have missed out - not necessarily on a masterpiece, but on a thoroughly enjoyable anthology of sci-fi short stories about scientists. Editor Athena Andreadis congratulates her authors on having avoided the "as you know, Bob" style of writing, but they mostly haven't at all. I'm surprised at how soothing I find these fresh buckets of exposition being dumped over me one after another.

Favorite story so far: "Fieldwork" by Shariann Lewitt, about a geologist whose grandmother died trying to colonize Europa. That's the other, more obviously soothing thing about sci-fi: the illusion of a future. It's terribly cozy to think anyone could have a grandmother who colonized Europa.

What I Plan to Read Next

The Woman in the Water, a Most Comfortable Man in London prequel about A Deadly Serial Killer, arrived yesterday. I've been sort of sighing resignedly in its direction.

What I've Finished "Reading"

Finnegans Wake, at long last. My 99 Novels list now has an unbroken stretch of read books from 1939 through - what is this? '53?

Was it worth it? Who knows? I'm now reading A Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake by William York Tindall and suspect Joyce of having created a hilariously successful trap for earnest lit critics. I'm looking forward to encountering some totally serious footnotes to Joyce's mock-footnotes.

Anyway, whatever it is, I applaud it. I was successfully trapped, and I laughed a lot (it's more like a very allusive stand-up comedy routine than anything else) despite never having a single inkling of the "plot" Tindall and Burroughs claim is detectable, until about three pages from the end. Even then it's not so much a plot as "Nora shows up." But I was happier to see her than I had any right to be.

What I've Finished Reading

The Bell is a very different reading experience. it's lucid and funny, and perfectly economical. Everyone's good and bad choices, with maybe one or two exceptions, are so lit up with inevitability that I barely had the energy to say "No, stop" - which might taste like smug fatalism in a different book but here is (almost always) just the consequence of a specific kind of good writing.

I'm not sure how I feel about one particular plot development, or rather two related ones involving tandem tragic ends, but otherwise my only beef with this book is that Dora's pompous asshole husband never gets the chance to be sympathetic (or, as Toby would say, a little less rebarbative). This probably isn't a flaw so much as a disappointed personal expectation. Henry Williamson's Dickie Maddison is making me crave assholes to sympathize with.

What I'm Reading Now

Norman Mailer: A Double Life by J. Michael Lennon. This is an official biography and so far nothing special, but it has a nice comfortable momentum from being enormous, and I enjoy reading about Mailer, who reminds me a little of Harriet Vane's story idea about the novelist who married for material and cheerfully murdered each new husband once the books were done. Luckily, divorce is reasonably easy to obtain in the US by the time Mailer is of age, so murder is off the table, though his Quest for Experience is still a little hard on the kids.

What I genuinely like about Mailer: his ambition, especially his ambition to write a great novel about shit, his tendency to put his foot in his mouth just when he needs his mouth the most, and his tremendous, painful loathing of plastic, which no one seems to have taken seriously enough to suit him. The latter didn't prevent him from co-designing and building a seven-foot lego model of a City of Tomorrow, which stayed in his house until his death (being "hell to dust," according to his sixth wife) though the hours of pressing tiny plastic pieces together made him "feel flat and dead." I would like to petition to rename the Great Pacific Garbage Patch the Norman Mailer Memorial Garbage Patch.

Henry Williamson and C. P. Snow are back! The Golden Virgin is a lot more Phil and the Great War, and a little more of Phil's parents, who for my money are the real heartbreakers in this 15-novel sequence (this is Book 6, for anyone keeping track). If there were nothing else to like about this series, I would read it just for Dickie Maddison, the bitterly unhappy suburban martinet, reading the atrocity reports in his favorite yellow paper half for their pornographic potential and half to see his own discontent and disillusionment mirrored in a rotten world. I've made him sound like a caricature, but that's because I'm not as good a writer as Henry Williamson. He's not. Hetty, Phillip's mother, is as thwarted and unhappy as her husband, but she can still laugh and be kind, and so is less pitiable.

Like Doctor Who's Craig with Paris, I have a hard time seeing the point of C. P. Snow - but the first long section of Homecoming, dealing with Lewis' unhappy marriage, is genuinely compelling in a low-key Snowish way. Sheila claws her way out of her social isolation to support a publishing project she thinks will give her a sense of purpose, only to be betrayed by her casually sociopathic beneficiary.

Then the situation is resolved in a not particularly satisfying way (SPOILER: [Shelia commits suicide]), and it's back to Standard Operating Snowcedure, minus the only character I particularly cared about. But I'm trying to pay more attention this time around - I haven't really given Snow a fair shake due to unspecified generalized boredom.

What I Plan to Read Next

My sci-fi anthology, more C. P. Snow, whatever else is lying around.

What I've Finished Reading

Black Sun: The Brief Transit and Violent Eclipse of Harry Crosby by Geoffrey Wolff. Large and sympathetic but not too fulsome biography of a dismally prudish sybarite and one-man death cult who also managed to publish some important authors in the 1920s before shooting himself and a girlfriend in a hotel room. Nothing amazing, but full of interesting details if you're into those Lost Generation guys. Harry is something of an outsider: very rich, not overwhelmingly gifted, tiresomely obsessed with a complicated personal mythology - but he goes to a lot of parties and makes some friends and makes some nice-looking books.

And Herself Surprised. Sara gets to the end of this short book without ever feeling sure she knows herself, though she tries to be as frank as possible. As a very young woman working as a servant, she marries the older son of her employer, largely because she feels sorry for him, and later takes up with Gulley with mixed results. It’s very good! Unfortunately the edition I have is falling apart – it’s a paperback that seems to have fallen into a puddle or a bath at some point in its life, and mold is growing in the wrinkled bottom edge. But I’ll be keeping an eye out for a new (used) copy at the used bookstores, because it’s a keeper.

What I'm Reading Now

Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin (translated)

One of the drawbacks of trying to have honest reactions to books in public is that honesty can get pretty repetitive. In my heart, I have this hope that if I go on writing non-critical reactions for long enough, eventually an embryonic critical ability will begin to develop. Any random forty-second glance at Goodreads should be enough to strip me of this notion, but I live in hope as I live in ignorance. Anyway, it hasn't come to pass, and in the meantime, I end up saying a lot of the same things over and over. Notably: “Hey, guys! You know that famous proverbially influential thing that everyone learned about in school? SURPRISE, IT’S AMAZING. Who knew??”

Everyone knew! Everyone but me. But here I am again, to tell you the exciting news about Eugene Onegin, a wry and hilarious "novel in verse," completed in 1830, in which practically every stanza is a witty precis of some future novel.

But there’s no need that I dissemble
His illness – name it how you choose,
The English spleen it may resemble,
‘Twas in a word the Russian blues,
He spared us, true, one piece of folly;
Although he grew more melancholy,
Was bored with everything he tried,
He did stop short of suicide.
Soft glance, nor welcome sweetly caroled,
Nor cards, nor gossip, chased his gloom;
He’d stroll into the drawing-room
Surly and languid as Childe Harold.
A wanton sigh was not worth mention:
Nothing attracted his attention.

I have already been told several times that Onegin can’t be translated and it’s useless to try! This is probably true. From my standpoint of ignorance, though, this translation (by Babette Deutsch) is not just readable, but delightful in its own right, even if I’m missing 98% of what makes Onegin great and am now doomed to misunderstand Pushkin, and by extension all of Russian literature, forever. I hope it’s not quite that bad – but if it is, at least I had a good time.

What I Plan to Read Next

I don't know! I'm out of town for work and totally out of sync with my usual calendar, so I might just try to focus on Shirley until that gets closer to done.

Archived from Livejournal

I'm not reading anything this week (I'll read and respond to comments next week) but I did finish Prometheus: The Life of Balzac on Friday. I loved every horrible minute; it was one of the most enjoyable biographies I've ever read.

( And the ever-present doubt remained: how trust a man who had never known the difference between fact and fiction? )

So obviously I have to read one of this asshole's books now, right? The funny thing is, Maurois doesn't succeed in making them sound very appealing, though he's able to make Balzac himself incredibly appealing. But I believe in them anyway. We have Eugénie Grandet at the bookstore, so I'll probably just grab that, but if you have any recommendations, I'd be happy to hear them!

Archived from Livejournal

What I've Finished Reading

The Laughing Monsters. I like Denis Johnson, though his work was never the beacon for me that it was for a lot of people I know, so I read this book partly out of a sense of obligation despite some clear indications that it was going to be Not My Thing. Maybe that was a mistake.

( It was short, anyway, and did me no harm. )

It's also entirely possible that the extra-large print had a subconscious effect on my impressions – like maybe some part of my brain kept trying to read it as a YA novel and was constantly being surprised by all the rape and arms dealing and whatnot.

What I'm Reading Now

Prometheus: The Life of Balzac by André Maurois. It's a biography of an author I've never read, written in 1964 in a style that feels a little old-fashioned -- peppered with self-conscious epigrams about genius, women, and the relationship of women to genius -- but very readable and almost as exuberantly confident and charming as its subject. The elder Balzacs are supportive of 19-year-old Honoré, even if secretly they are skeptical about the idea of literature as a money-making venture. They have just set him up in romantic fake poverty in Paris for a trial run of two years, to "prove his talent." His first move as a Real Writer in Paris: attempt to develop a philosophy of life!! His second move: write a spectacularly earnest epic verse play about Cromwell and send it to a well-known dramatist! (Honoré's mother celebrates the occasion by making a beautiful copy of Cromwell in her own handwriting).

"He read it with care, but when Madame Balzac and Laure called on him to ask his opinion he suggested that the author's time might be better employed than in the writing of stage pieces. He added that he did not wish to discourage a young man and was quite ready to suggest to him 'how he should approach the study of belles-lettres'. The sheet of paper on which he had noted his private opinion of the play was lying on his desk. Laure got hold of it and passed it on to Honoré. It was a good deal more blunt: 'The author would be well-advised to try anything except literature. . ."

Honoré bounces right back, though. <3

I'm almost done with Under the Volcano and maybe next week I'll have something to say about it. It's virtuosic as hell.

What I Plan to Read Next

It's your turn, The Victim by Saul Bellow!

Also, DID YOU KNOW I am still reading Finnegans Wake; maybe eventually I'll even finish it. Does anyone ever finish Finnegans Wake, or do they just hop off the boat before it starts to go around again? Anyway, I will get to the part where the pages run out (at this rate probably sometime in 2017).

Archived from Livejournal

What I've Finished Reading

Earlier that year, when "an Indian Woman with gay Baskets and a dazzling Baby" appeared at the kitchen door, instead of locking it Emily engaged the stranger in talk, asking what the infant liked. 'To step' was the answer, whereupon the poet led the unsteady toddler on a short walk: "she leaned on Clover Walls and they fell, and dropped her -- With jargon sweeter than a Bell, she grappled Buttercups -- and they sank together."

I've mentioned finishing My Wars are Laid Away in Books already, but wanted to mention it again, for this anecdote about Emily Dickinson meeting a baby, and to say that if you like biographies with a lot of density and texture, this is a good one. ( Some words about a book about Emily Dickinson )

The English Breakfast Affair by Jennifer Montgomery ( is as delicious as a stack of scones with cream )

This is one of a series of hot-beverage-themed romances by Montgomery, all of which I bought immediately on finishing The English Breakfast Affair.

What I'm Reading Now

Titus Groan will never end, but that's all right; it never has to. Reading it is like living in Gormenghast: the corridors bend on one another and are full of fascinating rubbish, and the movement of the sun is curiously understated through the tiny vine-covered windows, and you'd barely know time was passing if it weren't for some rotting pears and the occasional baby.

But the droplets of plot are beginning to run together all the same: Steerpike has made himself an ally of the petty, stunted, and haplessly resentful sisters of the Earl of Groan, jabbing at their envy with a poker and encouraging them to grand gestures of destruction. Will this shake things up permanently? Maybe, maybe not.

I began A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906 immediately after finishing Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and I think Simon Winchester's writing is suffering a little by comparison. ( Winchester is sloppily lyrical. )

Anyway, it's interesting! There are brief great moments! The contemporary accounts of earthquakes are especially good so far, and there's plenty more to come.

What I'm Going to Read Next

WHO KNOWS. I need to get my Yuletide act together last week, so maybe nothing!

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evelyn_b

April 2022

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A Miserable Little Pile of Wednesdays
Another Year, Another Wednesday
Every Step You Take Wednesday
What's the Buzz, Tell Me What's Wednesdaying
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Whorled Without Aimed Wednesday
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