Only in the apt prose of Ian McEwan, can the reader suspend believability and trust a blind, opining, BBC-addicted, millennial-phobic, wine connoisseur narrator who is a fetus.
'Nuff said, in, ahem, a nutshell.
Much regret for not posting the results of our slate sooner. I parked my car underneath a tree. With berries. Hence, I now know why my vehicle is called BMW.
Perhaps this avian-bois-toilette attribution can boost the number of gender identities to 72. Our narrator would approve. Due to the doo-doo that now gives new meaning to Lady McBeth's, "Out, damned spot[s]!" I have only just finished washing my car and can finally post our election results. It was a nail biter.
- April: The Stranger by Albert Camus-numerous translations exist. Doesn't matter which one you choose. Couldn't help it.
- May: A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman
- Summer Selection: Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Hamlet states that "Brevity is the soul of wit," thus I bid adieu asking you to shop local for your biblio-selections.
The breathable comma? Read this post again, omit the commas. Feh! Horrible!
Our discussions give me joy.