My daughter has been sick for ten days now. As it's a virus, there's nothing much to do about it except sleep a lot, drink fluids and try not to watch too many hours of Netflix.
I am hanging with her, listening to every cough, trying not to freak out over the word "pneumonia." I never should have read "Studs Lonigan," or any of that other Irish stuff I grew up on.
To pass the time I have decided to actually read some of the books I have in the house. Specifically:
The Harvard Classics of Fiction.
You've probably seen the set, somewhere. Somewhere old and dusty, where old and dusty and basically untouched collections of books go to die. We bought this set of 20 books for 20 bucks ina barn somewhere. Well now, by gum, I'm going to read them.
I started -- Saturday? Don't remember. I am now halfway through Volume One, which is Henry Fielding's "Tom Jones." A book which, I discovered to my dismay, takes up two volumes of the set.
You can follow my reluctant but determined progress on Twitter at