I am only so intelligent.
It is marginal.
As Winnie-The-Pooh said, "I am a bear of little brain."
Having finished John Fowles  novel entitled Mantissa tonight, wow, I am reminded of the limitations of my mental capacities.
It's a deep novel. To quote that famous bear again, umm… I "drowned-ed."
When it comes to oxygen levels, I was gasping.
I was reminded of the guy in the used-book lineup… looking over my shoulder when I snapped up this Mantissa book for a measly $1.00 just days ago… "That book is very different," he said.
"Different than what?" I asked.
"Different than his other books," and then he walked away.
I noted his severely pale legs [always a sign of over-intelligence] and his hairless cue-ball of a head [further proof that even our blood-temperature is not the same]… even though my own tonsure is arriving faster than I would like -- anyhow, I gave it a shot, based on the fact that I loved Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman so much -- read it last month -- but yeah, this one proved to be
a difficult beastie. One of those books where what's happening is not really... happening.
Bears of little brain smell smoke quickly, when engaged with these sort of things.
So I am thankful to set this aside and turn to a reliable standby. William Trevor. -->
His latest novel -- Love and Summer.
See -- he's baldish, but he always wears a HAT!
And his face is all wrinkled-y.
What's a semi-retarded bear to fear?