I tried to read ol' DH Lawrence's Sons and Lovers but was unsuccessful. The narrative time moves too quickly in the novel; I'm keeping it, because I think it's a required text for a course next semester. I've been so let down by literature since I read The Red and the Black, my heart burning with Julien Sorel-esque ambition. I read Being There, which was not literature, I think. Now I've picked up Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, that classic of American underground literature. He seems a grandfather to Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Hunter Thompson and the whole gang. Freaky freaky.