Ok, I'm done. Gone Girl is a done deal, and while I didn't feel totally satisfied with the ending, I suppose it couldn't have culminated differently without being too tidy. I'm always amazed by novel writers who can conjure extremely dysfunctional characters in such thorough, developed ways. Surely these authors are not all so terribly troubled or psychologically damaged, and as such, it must therefore be a true gift with words and imagination. This and Room come to mind as perfect examples of wildly gripping, excellently written, disconcerting yet utterly engaging and memorable fiction. Quick note before I hit the sack. A magazine I'm thumbing through has informed me that in any one glass of Champagne are roughly 20 million bubbles. Delightful! And, apparently, if you chill for long enough and pop the cork at a snail's pace, the golden nectar won't gush out and be wasted. Fine, fine. The blurb then advises dropping a raisin in each glass to increase fizz. This is where I draw the line. Of course I know the relation between grapes/raisins/wines but a boogary looking ort residing at the bottom of my festive flute is just taking the importance of the bubble-factor too far. I say no!!