I little while ago I was at a party and we were discussing good literature---Wilde, Waugh, Greene and so on---and from somewhere lodged deep in my memory/subconscious I recalled a book; the problem was, I couldn't remember the title or the author. Somehow I knew it was really good too, though I had never read it myself; just heard about it from a friend years before. After asking nearly everyone at the party if they could help us figure out what the heck this book was, but to no avail, I started on a quest. The only thing I knew for sure was that it was a work of Science Fiction of some sort, and had to do with Catholic monks and the Apocalypse. Not too much to go on it would seem, but I knew as soon as I saw the title I would know it. Well, a short time on Google and Wikipedia cured my ignorance and I swung by the local used book store and snagged an old tattered paperback copy for $1.79. At the party, the friend I was chatting with declared that when we finally found out what the book was it had better be awesome beyond reasonable expectation for all the trouble we had gone to; and folks, it was. A Canticle for Leibowitz is perhaps the the most Catholic, perceptive and beautiful work of fiction I have ever read. The book is filled with incredible descriptions of human goodness and sacrifice, a deep and accurate commentary on the Church and it servants, and many quiet, inoffensive digressions of personal opinion and thoughts about life by the author that has left me very moved. This is not a suggested read, this book is an absolute MUST!

I stayed up until two in the morning last night working on my Dad's old Nova, trying to get the engine in it so we can drive it back to Washington State---which is supposed to be happening in 6 days---and right now the motor is still on a stand in front of the car, the transmission is sitting in the corner, the driveshaft is rolling around under the car, and the radiator is on a shelf under the workbench. Well, this sort of thing is nothing new for me, so I'll plough through a couple more nights like last and we'll be on our way, God Willing. And despite the misery of going to work on 3 hours and 15 minutes of sleep, there is something undeniably satisfying, even fun, about staying up half the night struggling with some old greasy piece of machinery.

It's a beautiful morning and I feel introspective, though I'm not really thinking about anything. Seems when you finally feel that you ready to say something grand and insightful the words just dry up. So I am talking about wanting to be smart and literary, without actually being so...I don't mind at all though, the sun is warm and so is my coffee, and I have misplaced my textbook, so until I get more serious about finding it i can't do my homework. Ha!