I just finished reading ...

...The Sun Also Rises. And I could not friggin wait to finish it. It annoyed me almost from the start. I swear if it hadn't been so short I probably would NOT have finished it. I think I have read enough books written at the turn of the twentieth century about disenchanted Bohemians searching for the meaning of life in Paris (ok and Spain). Over it. Paris sounds like a rather miserable place with all these depressed precursors to the emo running around. Of the dozen books I'm sure I've read with that motif, only one can I say I actually enjoyed--Of Human Bondage because the poor fool actually came to his senses that Paris was not the place for him, and left it shortly into the book.