From One Book Lover

When Giving Is All We Have Alberto Ríos , 1952                                               One river gives                                               Its journey to the next. We give because someone gave to us. We give because nobody gave to us. We give because giving has changed us. We give because giving could have changed us. We have been better for it, We have been wounded by it— Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet, Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails. Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too, But we read this book, anyway, over and again: Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand, Mine to yours, yours to mine. You gave me blue and I gave you yellow. Together we are simple green. ...

So, did you read a lot this summer? I know of a few readers who did, and it will earn them a book of their own! One of the most enjoyable parts of the summer reading club is coming up with new books to read. I invited my buds to join the club for summer reading, and two readers took me up on it. Both Karen and Stacy  tantalized me with their amazing reading lists. I think I found a few more tomes to add to my (growing) "to be read" list and was pleased to see an unexpected name among the authors. (Oh, there were more than a few favorites in there, too. I know how to pick them — friends and books.) Karen read the following, for a total of 20 tomes: The Bone Chamber, Robin Burcell Misery, Stephen King Coming Home, Mariah Stewart Desperation, Stephen King Feels Like Family, Sherryl Woods The Sign of the Beaver, Elizabeth George Spear Escape from Andersonville, Gene Hackman and Daniel Lenihan The MacGregors-Alan Grant, Nora Roberts The Walking Dead:Rise of the ...

November This is the treacherous month when autumn days With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts. Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays Will idly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again. The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. What joy sufficient hath November felt? What profit from the violet’s day of pain? - Helen Hunt Jackson courtesy poets.org

On All Hallow's Eve, I gave this poem to every trick-or-treater who came to my door, as well as every one who walked within bounding distance of me. Requiescat         Tread lightly, she is near         Under the snow,         Speak gently, she can hear         The daisies grow.                  All her bright golden hair         Tarnished with rust,         She that was young and fair         Fallen to dust.                  Lily-like, white as snow,         She hardly knew         She was a woman, so...

Autumn Returns A day in mourning falls from the bells like a trembling cloth of vague life, it's a color, a dream of cherries sunk into the earth, it's a tail of smoke that arrives without rest to change the color of the water and the kisses. I don't know if you understand me: When night         approaches from the heights, when the solitary poet at the window hears the steed of autumn running and the leaves of trampled fear rustling in his arteries, there is something over the sky, like the tongue of thick oxen, something in the doubt of the sky and         the atmosphere. Things return to their place: the indispensable lawyer, hands, oil, the bottles, all the signs of life: beds, above all, are full of bloody liquid, people deposit their confidences in sordid ears, assassins descend stairs, but it's not that, it's the old gallop, the horse of old autumn who trembles and endures. The h...

It's official: the days are growing shorter, the air is crisp and the equinox set our eggs on end. Summer is over and autumn has begun. For those of us Book Lovers who enjoy summer reading, the turn of the season is bittersweet, but not unwelcome: sometimes it's hard to stay indoors and curl up with a book while the sun shines! This summer was not too hot (which limited my reading) and was filled with a few adventures, including the very special wedding of a very special couple and a new feline addition to the family (different events, of course — my new son-in-law Kenny is charming, but not in the least bit feline) (I think). However, there always is time to read, even if it's into the middle of the night. (Daylight is not a welcome force the following morning, I tell you what.) As part of the 2014 Summer Reading Club, I read 33 books: A Red Herring Without Mustard Second Glance Centuries of June A Room With A Zoo The Interestings Bats at the Bal...

As noted previously in this blog, my friend Carole and I have decided to read Weighty Books. After eight months of such reading, I have to wonder if I can read them with as fresh an eye as I would have in my undergraduate days. I ask this question after finishing Tobacco Road , a relentless story of loss and more loss. Jeeter is beaten down by life and The Man. The last time he tried to farm his land, the rich folk of Augusta stole from him more than his entire profit: it took his desire for success. He would never win, no matter how hard he worked, so it made entire sense that he did not get up off the porch for much. However, the characters of Tobacco Road were relentless sinners. Holy cow, by God and by Jesus, they were a wicked lot. I don't use those words lightly, but they fit in this case. Even characters who were supposed to be the most spiritually uplifted were fantastically immoral, even by Tobacco Road standards. The ending was as relentless and beaten-down as the...