Finished reading Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men along with completing my marking. Not sure mixing the two was wise but I find McCarthy so intense that I didn't mind breaking off fairly often to get back to something a bit more normal. The thing is, of course, that the writer has a way of making you acutely aware that his version of what's normal might just be the more accurate. Not a pleasant thought.
Soaking myself in the everydayness of just getting stuff done (marking, the house) is my remedy for the darkness, I suppose.
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