Yesterday I finally finished Norman Mailer's enormous historical novel about the CIA, Harlot's Ghost. I'm a good reader, so I'm ashamed about how long it took me to finish the thing. And now, I feel like I just threw out of my house an 80-year-old distant uncle who spent several weeks on my couch spouting dirty stories, conspiracy theories about Sam Giancana, and pseudo-Freudian nonsense. Glad he's gone, but kinda miss him already.
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