Work was work. I monitored people, and most of them did all right, unlike yesterday's "Now we've got the entire collection!" from the Pink Shirt Guy Shift Ops Super, as I handed him the fourth minus report from one of four notoriously poor-performing Phone Goons (all of whom had been sat in a row on a particular job).
I got supper and headed home. I unfortunately woke up marxdarx when I turned on the vacuum cleaner for a few seconds to clean up the baking soda I'd used to neutralize Little Miss Puss's poor choice in potty-places. I did a great sackful of laundry, and I chatted with my bro.
Life is good, and J. Robert King's Mad Merlin was an excellent choice from the library.
I have decided that modern horror (the well-crafted that makes one shiver in one's bones) fills the same niche that ancient tragedy did. Tragedy, then, wasn't meant to sadden or depress -- it was meant to truly horrify. Some of those things have lost their power to horrify, but some of them remain potent, but the word's lost its clout. Horror's losing its clout; modern horror has to be sifted from the bloodbaths that seek to create horror through sheer numbers of slaughter, but there's hope yet.
Stephen King would get so much more literary credibility if someone were to point out in a Lit class that he writes classic tragedy.