On the bus ride home* I read most of Home Land, which I've been hearing about for well over a year. I've got maybe fifty pages left, but I love it. A Confederacy of Dunces has always had a special spot on the mantle of my heart, both because of its New Orleans setting and because I read it when I was very young, and Home Land is just as funny, just as good (all judgments pending my actual completion of the novel). I've heard other readers express exasperation with its wordplay and seemingly arbitrary plot but I had no problem with any of this. The wordplay is wonderful and patterning of language is almost Nabokovian. Sam Lipsyte is the first modern writer in a long time--since maybe Edward P. Jones--whose writing has made me think, "This guy has it--fully developed voice, talent, maybe genius."
*Fuck Greyhound. A 3.5 hour bus ride turned into 7 hours. First the police had to come on board to take away some horrible woman who refused to get off the bus after blatantly cutting in line. Our surly, trembling-with-rage driver could have handled this a lot better. Beside me a loudmouth obese lady was reading a paperback titled Soulful Strut. Later, we had to get a wheelchair-bound woman on board at another stop, and they couldn't figure out how to operate the lift, so we sat there for an hour or so...until she stood up from her wheelchair and just walked on board. And a great murmur arose as every passenger said to his or her seatmate, "She can walk?"