Thunder in the west and I'm about to be whisked off to go eat a vegetarian burrito. But I have two quick wonderings. One is about my troubled relationship to fiction, which I've been disparaging in various venues: the ways in which narrative simplifies, lies, tends toward unearned redemption, etc. But today, inspired by a review of his latest book, I picked Alan Furst's first WWII espionage novel off the Bookery shelves and was immediately hooked. The writing is graceful, the characters detailed and believable, the knowledge of history/geography/politics appears to be rock solid. Oh, the car horn. Will finish this later.