A few of these will have to be postponed after Labor Day, as I need to prep for Fall for the Book Festival. I need to read Amy Waldman's The Submission and Michael Chabon's Telegraph Avenue before the festival. But we'll see.
Pegasus Publishing offers this on a t-shirt, which is an edited quote by James Nicoll:
problem with defending the purity of the English language is that
English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don't just borrow
words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways
to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.
I love English!
It's a top-selling series and the butt of many a joke, called — well, no matter what it is called, it's a phenom. But is theFifty Shades trilogy good?
And the answer, for me, is yep: it was a fun, rollicking, blue, entertaining ride through a few months in the lives of the fictional (and insatiable) Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey of Portland, Oregon.
While there's plenty of sex going on in excruciating detail — enough, I suppose, to classify this as erotica — author E. L. James tries to make it so much more than that. I can't say she does it with great style and aplomb, but she does know how to weave an exciting, compelling tale.
James is known in the fanfic world for her Twilight adaptations written under the name "Snowqueen Icedragon" — which, in the spirit of full disclosure, I admit I have not read.
I also admit I am not a fan of fanfic, as I've managed to find only the cloying, cheap knock-off near-parody stories that usually teem with the expl…
Maya Angelou reports, "The Olympics Committee ask me to write a poem for the 2008 Olympics and I
offer it again for the 2012 Olympians. I commend you all, Americans and
winners across the globe for what you do is win the human spirit and
therefore we are all winners."
Sheer amazement awaits
Amazement luxuriant in promise
Abundant in wonder
Our beautiful children arrive at this Universal stadium
They have bathed in the waters of the world
And carry the soft silt of the Amazon, the Nile,
The Danube, the Rhine, the Yangtze and the Mississippi
In the palms of their right hands.
A wild tiger nestles in each armpit
And a meadowlark perches on each shoulder.
We, the world audience, stand, arms akimbo,
Longing for the passion of the animal
And the melody of the lark
The tigers passion attend the opening bells,
The birds sing of the amazement which awaits.
The miracle of joy that comes out of the gathering of our best, bringing their best,
I am a huge sharer of books. I buy them, scatter them around like apple seeds, hand them over to my friends, co-workers — and offer unsolicited suggestions to readers everywhere. (With the latter, I try to be polite and non-obtrusive, and I retreat at the first sign of "get out of my face, I'm shopping here!")
To make up for the 2012 lapse, I shall scatter a few more books into the wind.
Brain Pickings recently introduced me to something fantastic: fragments of poems written by Marilyn Monroe. They are included in the book titled Fragments: Poems, Intimate Notes, Letters by Marilyn Monroe.
She's a mythic figure, tragic, fragile, lost too soon. These fragments show a thoughtful, creative artist.
Here are a few fragments:
I’m finding that sincerity
to be as simple or direct as (possible) I’d like
is often taken for sheer stupidity
but since it is not a sincere world –
it’s very probable that being sincere is stupid.
One probably is stupid to
be sincere since it’s in this world
and no other world that we know
for sure we exist — meaning that –
(since reality exists it
should be must be dealt
should be met and dealt with)
since there is reality to deal with
I guess I have always been
to really be someone’s
since I know life
one cannot love another,
Oh damn I wish that I were
dead — absolutely nonexistent –
The circus arrives without warning. Les Cirque des Rêves follows no schedule. One day there's an open, empty field, and the next morning there appears circus tents surrounded by a black metal fence with a gate that states the circus opens after dark. It sits empty and still during daylight hours. But at night... acts and shows that seem other-worldly. The illusions are perfectly wrought, the animals exquisite. Each tent is more fantastic than the last. Each performer is more perfect than imagined. Then, one morning, the field is again empty.
The tale of the circus is told through the relationship of two magicians — and the players who compete in the game.
These friends (nemesis?) have carried on this competition for longer than either of them can remember. Each chooses a person who he thinks is worthy and capable. Each p…
I checked out three library books this week. Each has a specific role in my reading life. I am very excited! Fragments by Marilyn Monroe. She wrote poetry, or at least fragments of poetry. Why am I surprised that this artist would commit her poetry to paper? Rest assured, Poetry Wednesday will benefit from this.The Invention of Hugo Cabaret by Brian Selznick. I sent it to my friend Marie for her birthday last year, and I haven't read it. I will remedy that before I see her again. I haven't seen the movie — have you? Did you enjoy it? Do I want to see it?Secret Daughter by Shilpi Somaya Gowda. My book club read it, but reviews are mixed at best. I haven't consumed it yet, and I may wait to read it until all of the reviews
For the first time this calendar year, I have no materials on hold. I returned Ruby Red earlier this year before I could read it, and you know how I love time travel fiction. I may set it up for hold to pick up in October — thank heavens for dela…
Ulysses It little profits that an idle king1,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades2
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy3.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!