Aside from the National Book Critics Circle award winners, there isn’t much going on today—I’m tearing my way through Mark Z. Danielewski’s Only Revolutions, laughing (oddly enough) and shitting myself through Scott Smith’s The Ruins, and using Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf as my new insomnia cure—but I managed to dig up an excerpt from the latest talk of the town: John Clinch’s Finn. I’m dying to read this book, so enjoy.