I'm about to finish Steven Pressfield's book Killing Rommel. As if I weren't in absolute awe when he was writing in his Greek world, he now slips those bonds and enters WWII as if he'd been there all of his life. I'm at a loss for words but it matters not because anything I might have to say is irrelevant in the shadow of such understanding. I can only thank him for teaching me the heights to which a writer should aspire. And now I'll walk away blathering like an idiot for another day or so before diving back into his book The War of Art (not a replacement for the home bible, but a worthy supplement).