Someone who:

-> Reads this blog.

-> Remembers my birthday, and,

-> Can spare $90.00,

should post-haste make arrangements to buy me this most excellent book.

Henry James's explorations of Maisie Farange's psyche can be, if not more, at least as complex as Dr. Rudin's terse expository charges into the nature of the real numbers. An hour reading each of these excellent authors will plunge anyone into a trance from which recovery may not even be desirable, leave alone possible; trances within which any art may be purveyed, any theorem proven.

Though what if the act of writing the task out is itself sufficient to remember it?

Oh, my blog turned two yesterday. This would be insignificant if not for one of my latest novelistic concepts (I have far too many floating about in my head for my own good), which depends on the many ideas that this medium has spawned over the past years. Here's to another two years of sporadic posts, I say.

A remarkably acerbic article...

... by Wood's standards. John Bayley, as some might recall, is a Professor of English at Oxford, Henry James scholar, man of letters, and until 8th February 1999 the henpecked husband of Iris Murdoch.