I've started Sam & Max 302, finally, but out of laziness I resorted these days more to Worms 4. Other than that, I read a lot (as usual). Among those books, the L'herbe rouge of Boris Vian, which, as I expected, ended very bad. Before that I've read L'ecume des jours, which I found a totally schizophrenic book, I found the first half absolutely wonderful, absolutely stunning, quite the thing that I always dreamed to found in novels. When I was really a child, I really hated something about fairytales, the Tarzan sort of adventure novels and stuff like that. Long before I heard about postmodernism, I had a sort of postmodernist temper. And an uglily romantic one too, being misanthrope and wanting all the time to get rid of the annoying children around me! I felt like a "cold and immortal genius" (my friends from Romania know to what I make allusion), although I was only cold back then, really. Not even science-fiction books satisfied me entirely. The acid satire of Caragiale attracted me at some point, to the point that I was ocassionally making amateurish dramatic sketches using the characters of nowadays politic life, but using the exactly same style of Caragiale. After that, I managed to get attracted by a poem by Mircea Cărtărescu: it was all written with small letters and it had no punctuation, not to mention the neologistic language. So started a long story of me involving poetry, literature, a story that hadn't finished yet...