Once, years and years ago, I started reading Walker Percy's The Moviegoer. Why not? It won the National Book Award; it was highly spoken of as illustrative of Southern Literature—the two words capitalized and spoken in awe. At that time, not having instituted my 50-page rule, I doubt I made it to the second page. Earlier this week I had another "go" at it and happily report that I have now read the whole thing. 'Nuff said.
PS I take it back. One thing in The Moviegoer will stick with me. The narrator is talking about remembering scenes in movies and refers to "the time the kitten found Orson Welles in the doorway in The Third Man." (page 7) Excuse me! That wasn't a kitten; it was a cat! (Yes. I really am that picky.)
