I've got the latest Neal Stephenson book, sitting in my cube. I really need to wait, to give it to my Dad, as a gift. The temptation to pop it out, snag some food and head outside is extremely strong, especially on a blue-skied, sun-warmed, wind-cooled day such as today. The fact that, instead, I'm reading a dry Aldous Huxley book (described as the "The Modern Day Vanity Fair" by The New Republic...in 1928!) whose major thesis I disagree with on a visceral level, makes me all the more tempted. Huxley tests one's ability to know your enemy, yet his writing style is actually enjoyable enough to forgive his flawed logic. Add to that the fact that I scored, for a mere dollar, one of the seminal works I read during middle school, namely, the first two volumes of all the Hugo aware winners and you have an even greater problem. The latter contains several memorable stories, including one of the best ever, by Harlan Ellison, "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" which still affects me. It also contains an incredibly short story, "The Star" by Arthur C Clarke, which contains the best trait of any story: the ability to linger in one's mind for far longer than is healthy.

Instead I must content myself reading the Stephenson interview over a quick minute, only then turning back to the dull, repetitive task that greets me: rebuilding a broken server. It's torture, I tell you.