I’m just back from a few days on Cape Cod. There was a little bit of rain but not nearly as much as forecast for Boston. The sand was wonderful, the ocean lovely and warm. I got through about half of Ishiguro’s “When We Were Orphans” yesterday. It’s a little dry and heavily introspective, but nevertheless entertaining. Memory plays a big role. I find myself digging through my own memories of childhood, like the protagonist. As I read, I have a recurring suspicion that some critical aspect of the protagonist’s existence, hinted at but heretofore missed by us and the protagonist, is going to suddenly be revealed. Like John Nash’s mental illness in “A Beautiful Mind”.