Sigh. I have been trying to wade through the Fountainhead, a task that has been getting progressively more difficult. In its dense and cheerless pages, I begin to wander quickly. The two main characters, that carrot-top Roark and the glassy Dominique, strike me as mirthless gits who rather deserve each other. Still, I must continue on. I find that it helps put me to sleep- and as insomnia has started visiting me again, this is a good thing.
Then I've started on Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. This guy is the ultimate curmedgeon- I've only read the first chapter and already there have been such gems as 'the tedium of listening to the delusions of the young..." Wow! I want to be like you, Theroux, when I grow up. (I'm already well on the way, though.)
But when all else fails, it's Wodehouse to the rescue yet again. Nothing can beat the exploits of Gussie Fink-Nottle dressing as Mephistopheles for a fancy dress ball, losing his way to the party, and ending up getting arrested.