Uncharacteristically

I read a book of poetry, Craig Dworkin's Dure, a sort of meditation on a strange and compelling image of Durer's. Favorite sentence: "Lips lie parched and parcel where a tremble meant tear, or cheer, depending on the tongue." My friend MG loaned it to me after I was pigheadedly talking about how I never read any poetry. (Which I don't. If I'm going to read something that asks you to consume it in small chunks on which you then ruminate, I would rather read something like this or this or this. However honesty compels me to admit that 99 times out of a hundred I will just be reading a novel anyway.) I will seek out Dworkin's other books, though; I liked this one a lot.