From One Book Lover

On Mondays On Mondays when the museums are closed and a handful of guards look the other way or read their newspapers all of the figures step out of golden frames to stroll the quiet halls or visit among old friends. Picasso's twisted ladies rearrange themselves to trade secrets with the languid odalisques of Matisse while sturdy Rembrandt men shake the dust from their velvet tams and talk shop. Voluptuous Renoir women take their rosy children by the hand to the water fountains where they gossip while eating Cezanne's luscious red apples. Even Van Gogh in his tattered yellow straw hat seems almost happy on Mondays when the museums are closed. by Marilyn Donnelly from Coda . © Autumn House Press , 2010. Courtesy of The Writer's Almanac

Why did no one tell me this video existed? It proves , once and for all, that Let's Pretend This Never Happened is one of the funniest memoirs on the market today. For the love of the Bible, just read it. I did, and I'll never be the same. Once I'm recovered, I may be able to write a quick review. I might have to re-read it first... Anyway, read the book. Just read it. Do it for the mouse.

Memorial Day was designated at holiday after the American Civil War, celebrated on May 30 because there was no momentous battle on that day for either side. After World War I, the holiday was changed to recognize all American military personnel who fell in battle. Below is a poem written by someone who lived through the Civil War, who reminds us that no matter what side the soldier may be on, a soldier has fallen. The Blue And The Gray By the flow of the inland river,     Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,     Asleep are the ranks of the dead:         Under the sod and the dew,             Waiting the judgment-day;         Under the one, the Blue,             Under the other, the Gr...

Nathan Englander 's new collection of short stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank , first entered my consciousness when I read the title story in The New Yorker. For days, I read parts of it aloud to anyone within earshot and vowed to read the book when it was published. I enjoyed the stories immensely and hope other readers will take up this tome as soon as they can. The title story involves two friends whose lives went separate ways and brings them back together to ask the question one of them has asked herself, and others, since childhood. Long-term friends whose relationship gelled during crazy, cattywhompus youth know each other best, this story reveals. The story weaves between the friends, the friends' husbands, the couples, never flinching, refusing to let go no matter how much it burns. Each of Englander's stories in this collection does that very thing: hang on for dear life until your time is up and the peep-show door closes. There ar...

Well, you did . So just do it. This weekend is a perfect time to start. Just do it.

The Day Disco Died It is 12:15 in Washington D.C., a Monday, the day after an earthquake in Italy, and I'm listening to "I Feel Love," the song Bryan Ferry said would change music for good. In Afghanistan a Marine sergeant tweets about boredom and generators from a gritty keyboard in Combat Outpost Marjah. I conjure up the unrelenting sand he describes in 140 characters while a new Barnard BA strategizes her type of rekindling and a poli-sci grad at Liberty types up an op/ed on Romney and values, and stories get made this way, then taken down. Just as quickly, the imprint of one a ghost in the other, the way Harvard links two opponents, the way a fracture is also a seam. Songs about rivers inflect an Italian art revolution against austerity, or we're forces multiplied both in the streets of Chicago or in the alliances of nations. Or we once listened to a soundtrack in falsetto that sounded like the end of the past and also the future as...

While some of us can see the art in a book, how many can make art out of a book? Check out these amazing sculptures created from books. Thanks to Book Riot for the tip.