I'm reading The Wicked Son by David Mamet. I'm re-reading The Merchant of Venice and The Outsider by Albert Camus.
I really did not enjoy The Outsider in high school, but I was full of pep and vigour then, and was quite repulsed by Existentialism. Camus' writing is much better than I remember. I've never warmed to Existentialism, but I'll see how I feel at the end of the book.
I also forgot that Merchant has one of my favourite openings of Shakespeare's plays, which I often misattributed to Romeo and Juliet.
In sooth I know not why I am so sad.I'll write more when I finish reading them.
It wearies me, you say it wearies you.
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn.
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me
That I have much ado to know myself.