earlier this evening I read most of a super-smart and extremely chilling noir novel from Hard Case Crime, The Confession by Domenic Stansberry. I just finished it--what a good book. It's a lot like this in spirit, but very modern too: really a great read.
(I am slightly mortified to confess that a few months ago I stood in a Barnes and Noble and read almost all of The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout. There's something a bit trashy about the book itself, but it's absolutely and horrifyingly gripping, especially if you have ever been closely involved with someone like that. Which presumably we all have, one way or another.)
On a more mundane tangent, I feel that I have come down in the world, going from doing my laundry in the basement of my apartment building to sitting in a laundromat waiting for the dryer to finish. It is one of my small number of worldly aspirations to live somewhere sometime with my own washer and dryer: the lap of luxury. Even just a washing-machine would be good.