The wandering boy is home

Woke up from a strange dream about our beloved son, and a while later, heard his door open and shut, signifying his presence, unless it was a spirit. ("Are they friendly spirits?" asked Rocky the Flying Squirrel.) He had driven marathon from Bishop, California, and was about to drop into the sack. He'd left LA, been able to get up the road to the Buttermilks, a renowned bouldering area near Bishop, and had one fantastic sunny day there. It was bitterly cold at night, however, and he decided he should move on.
I dipped into the novel one of my friends loaned me, Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult, and am not thrilled thus far. How plain and unbrilliant 21st century writers seem by comparison to You Know Who! (referring of course, to Ms. Bowen) I find myself wondering what has diluted the quality of writing these days. I'm not a "classics only, please" snob like some people I've encountered, but I am becoming a bit more sympathetic to their complaints about recent fiction. Is it the laxness of our daily conversations? The Great Satanic Eye of TV and movies? Diminished attention spans? Lack of time to read? Could it be I am growing increasingly grumpy over this? No need to respond, just wondering aloud on that last one. There are a handful of young writers I've found satisfying, like David Mitchell, Zadie Smith, Monica Ali - hmm, all Brits, despite varied ethnic backgrounds - oh, and some Canadians and Aussies. Their countries still produce people with some literary intelligence.
Okay, to bed with Jodi.