chilling along

Doldrummy around here; cool and actually rainy, causing balkiness amongst walkers. I am weary of Young Torless, and have sped to the end. Am stalled in Terrors of Ice and Darkness, and have opened an older Joyce Carol Oates novel, A Garden of Earthly Delights, published in 1966. Of course the title is ironic, as you might figure with Oates. Long ago I read one of her novels, can't recall which one, and found her too grisly for my liking, at least at the time. At the encouragement of a friend, I'm foraying again into Oates territory. In a strange and grisly way, it's good.