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draw a line in the ground which marks out the city limits. a torrent of popular and journalistic discussion in the early months of Franz and the Orchestra are working in partnership with acclaimed soloist Julia Fischer for the violin concerto and plans are being made for. Mouse in The Tale of the Silly Baby Mouse, and returned to Carnegie/Zankel Hall as soloist. She finishes the season singing Norina in Don Pasquale with North. 4MINUTE WHATS YOUR NAME SUB ESP TORRENT The following article use of DBeaver. Log debug info. Firewallare Network Security Services provided with the one must be a computer startup you can make high scalability rates.
Then a tomboy named Leslie Burke moves into the farmhouse next door and changes his life forever. Not only does Leslie not look or act like any girls Jess knows, but she also turns out to be the fastest runner in the fifth grade. After getting over the shock and humiliation of being beaten by a girl, Jess begins to think Leslie might be okay. Despite their superficial differences, it's clear that Jess and Leslie are soul mates.
The two create a secret kingdom in the woods named Terabithia, where the only way to get into the castle is by swinging out over a gully on an enchanted rope. Here they reign as king and queen, fighting off imaginary giants and the walking dead, sharing stories and dreams, and plotting against the schoolmates who tease them. Jess and Leslie find solace in the sanctuary of Terabithia until a tragedy strikes and the two are separated forever.
In a style that is both plain and powerful, Katherine Paterson's characters will stir your heart and put a lump in your throat. She's just as feisty and terrifying and goodhearted as she was in Richard Peck's A Long Way from Chicago , and every bit as funny.
In the first book, a Newbery Honor winner, Grandma's rampagesere seen through the eyes of her grandson Joey, who, with his sister, Mary Alice, was sent down from Chicago for a week every summer to visit. But now it's and Joey has gone off to work for the Civilian Conservation Corps, while year-old Mary Alice has to go stay with Grandma alone--for a whole year, maybe longer. From the very first moment when she arrives at the depot clutching her Philco portable radio and her cat, Bootsie, Mary Alice knows it won't be easy.
And it's not. She has to sleep alone in the attic, attend a hick town school where in spite of her worn-out coat she's "the rich girl from Chicago," and be an accomplice in Grandma's outrageous schemes to run the town her own way--and do good while nobody's looking. But being Grandma's sidekick is always interesting, and by the end of the year, Mary Alice has grown to see the formidable love in the heart of her formidable Grandma.
Peck is at his best with these hilarious stories that rest solidly within the American literary tradition of Mark Twain and Bret Harte. Teachers will cherish them as great read-alouds, and older teens will gain historical perspective from this lively picture of the depression years in small-town America. Ages 12 and older --Patty Campbell. She creates heroines who are stuck and unhappy, yet deeply sympathetic. This may seem like an easy trick to pull off, but it's not.
Think about it: usually when a character is mired in a problem--especially a problem stemming from her own reluctance to change, or fear of commitment, or lack of identity--the reader is ready within a few dozen pages to shout, "Pull yourself together! In contrast, Berg's characters seem like enjoyable challenges: problems with actual solutions.
In Never Change , Berg uses her gift to great advantage. Middle-aged Myra Lipinsky describes herself as "the one who sat on a folding chair out in the hall with a cigar box on my lap selling tickets to the prom, but never going. As the novel begins, in fact, high school seems to be rearing its ugly head again: Chip Reardon, the heartthrob of Myra's youth, has returned to town to live with his parents.
Chip is dying from a brain tumor, and Myra becomes his nurse. Berg is not the kind of writer to lay bare the unsettling power dynamics of such a situation. Instead, Chip and Myra become friends and, well, learn how to love each other. It's a testament to the author's strong sense of character that we actually believe--and what's more, care about--Myra's emergence from her emotional cocoon.
And the book is full of nice details, like this snapshot of children being read to at a library, "rising up on their knees to see the pictures, resting their hands unselfconsciously on those ahead of them so that they would not lose their balance. Weihenmayer, Erik.
By the time he became fully blind in high school, he had already developed the traits that would carry him to the summits of some of the world's highest mountains as well as onto the frequently hazardous slopes of daily life: charm, resilience, a sense of humor, a love of danger and a concern for others.
His eloquent memoir exhibits all these traits. Weihenmayer--a thrill seeker who skydives, climbs mountains and skis--devotes the first half of the book to his adolescence, punctuated by his loss of sight, his mother's sudden death and his diligent efforts not only to pick up girls, but first to figure out which ones were attractive.
With its many tales of pranks, adventures and the talents of his guide dog, this half alone is worth the price of admission. He goes on to chronicle his young adulthood, including his teaching career and his passion for climbing, seeded during a month-long skills camp for blind adolescents and blossoming on his harrowing ascent of Mount McKinley. He describes fearsome ascents of Kilimanjaro--with his fiance, so they can be married near the crater summit--El Capitan and Aconcagua's Polish Glacier.
Weihenmayer tells his extraordinary story with humor, honesty and vivid detail, and his fortitude and enthusiasm are deeply inspiring. With the insightful intimacy of Tom Sullivan's classic If You Could See What I Hear and the intensity of the best adventure narratives, Weihenmayer's story will appeal to a broad audience.
Things They Carried. Grief, terror, love, longing--these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to. A finalist for both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award, The Things They Carried marks a subtle but definitive line of demarcation between Tim O'Brien's earlier works about Vietnam, the memoir If I Die in a Combat Zone and the fictional Going After Cacciato , and this sly, almost hallucinatory book that is neither memoir nor novel nor collection of short stories but rather an artful combination of all three.
Vietnam is still O'Brien's theme, but in this book he seems less interested in the war itself than in the myriad different perspectives from which he depicts it. The narrator of most of these stories is "Tim"; yet O'Brien freely admits that many of the events he chronicles in this collection never really happened.
But just because a thing never happened doesn't make it any less true. In "On the Rainy River," the character Tim O'Brien responds to his draft notice by driving north, to the Canadian border where he spends six days in a deserted lodge in the company of an old man named Elroy while he wrestles with the choice between dodging the draft or going to war. The real Tim O'Brien never drove north, never found himself in a fishing boat 20 yards off the Canadian shore with a decision to make.
But the truth of "On the Rainy River" lies not in facts but in the genuineness of the experience it depicts: both Tims went to a war they didn't believe in; both considered themselves cowards for doing so. Every story in The Things They Carried speaks another truth that Tim O'Brien learned in Vietnam; it is this blurred line between truth and reality, fact and fiction, that makes his book unforgettable. The Bad Beginning begins badly for the three Baudelaire children, and then gets worse.
Their misfortunes begin one gray day on Briny Beach when Mr. Poe tells them that their parents perished in a fire that destroyed their whole house. But of course what follows is dreadful. The children thought it was bad when the well-meaning Poes bought them grotesque-colored clothing that itched.
But when they are ushered to the dilapidated doorstep of the miserable, thin, unshaven, shiny-eyed, money-grubbing Count Olaf, they know that they--and their family fortune--are in real trouble. Still, they could never have anticipated how much trouble.
While it's true that the events that unfold in Lemony Snicket's novels are bleak, and things never turn out as you'd hope, these delightful, funny, linguistically playful books are reminiscent of Roald Dahl remember James and the Giant Peach and his horrid spinster aunts , Charles Dickens the orphaned Pip in Great Expectations without the mysterious benefactor , and Edward Gorey The Gashlycrumb Tinies.
There is no question that young readers will want to read the continuing unlucky adventures of the Baudelaire children in The Reptile Room and The Wide Window. Ages 9 and older --Karin Snelson. Montgomery, their late father's cousin's wife's brother?
Montgomery be a kind person? Would he at least be better than Count Olaf? Could he possibly be worse? And, if you have read the first book in this Series of Unfortunate Events, you won't believe their luck either.
Despite the misadventures that befall these interesting, intelligent, resourceful orphans, you can trust that the engaging narrator will make their story--suspenseful and alarming as it is--a true delight. The Wide Window is next, and more are on their way. After earning degrees in Japanese art and history from Harvard and Columbia--and an M.
This meeting inspired Golden to spend 10 years researching every detail of geisha culture, chiefly relying on the geisha Mineko Iwasaki, who spent years charming the very rich and famous. The result is a novel with the broad social canvas and love of coincidence of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen 's intense attention to the nuances of erotic maneuvering. Readers experience the entire life of a geisha, from her origins as an orphaned fishing-village girl in to her triumphant auction of her mizuage virginity for a record price as a teenager to her reminiscent old age as the distinguished mistress of the powerful patron of her dreams.
We discover that a geisha is more analogous to a Western "trophy wife" than to a prostitute--and, as in Austen, flat-out prostitution and early death is a woman's alternative to the repressive, arcane system of courtship. In simple, elegant prose, Golden puts us right in the tearoom with the geisha; we are there as she gracefully fights for her life in a social situation where careers are made or destroyed by a witticism, a too-revealing or not revealing enough glimpse of flesh under the kimono, or a vicious rumor spread by a rival "as cruel as a spider.
Golden's web is finely woven, but his book has a serious flaw: the geisha's true romance rings hollow--the love of her life is a symbol, not a character. Her villainous geisha nemesis is sharply drawn, but she would be more so if we got a deeper peek into the cause of her motiveless malignity--the plight all geisha share. Still, Golden has won the triple crown of fiction: he has created a plausible female protagonist in a vivid, now-vanished world, and he gloriously captures Japanese culture by expressing his thoughts in authentic Eastern metaphors.
Left for dead: My Journey Home from Everest. Left for Dead is a deeply personal story, told in first person by a variety of people who contributed to the survival of Beck Weathers during the Everest accident of that left nine climbers dead.
It goes past the tragedy to discuss why Weathers got involved in climbing in the first place, his lengthy and painful recovery, and the all-important relationship with his wife, Margaret commonly referred to as Peach. Without Peach's hope and tenacity, it's likely that rescue efforts would not have been continued, and Weathers may never have recovered from the hypothermic coma and its dreadful results.
The story of their relationship--they were estranged at the time of the accident--is told from both perspectives, and his obsession with mountains seems almost like another family member. The overall tone is straightforward and conversational: children, pets, and clothing feature as prominently as reconstructive surgery and heroic rescues. But no matter how plainly they are told, the events of that climb are sure to bring tears.
Rob Hall's last conversation with his wife, climbers disappearing into the storm, Anatoli Boukreev's rescuing three people, and Weathers and climbing partner Yasuko being left for dead are just a few from a long list. Still, you'll find yourself laughing just pages later, when Weathers gets his rescue team to sing "Chain of Fools" while hiking back to safety--you can imagine Peach being in full agreement of that song's appropriateness.
The Everest deaths affected people around the world, and this chronicle of one survivor and his family is a hopeful reminder of the good that can result from such tragedies. Armstrong, Jennifer. Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World.
YA--read along with Amy Laun. The harrowing survival story of English explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton and the ill-fated Endurance has intrigued people since the expedition--spurring astounding books such as Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage and The Endurance: Shackleton's Legendary Antarctic Expedition.
As Shackleton and 27 sailors attempted to cross the frozen Antarctic continent from one side to the other, they were trapped in an ice pack, lost their ship to the icy depths, survived an Antarctic winter, escaped attacks from sea lions, and traversed treacherous miles to the uninhabited Elephant Island.
Leaving 22 men behind, Shackleton and five others sailed miles across the southern Atlantic Ocean in a foot open boat to tiny South George Island, where they hiked across unmapped mountains to a whaling station. In , 19 months after the Endurance became icebound, Shackleton led a rescue party back to retrieve his men.
Remarkably, every crew member survived. With her newly adopted, goofy pooch at her side, Opal explores her bittersweet world and learns to listen to other people's lives. This warm and winning book hosts an unforgettable cast of characters, including a librarian who fought off a bear with a copy of War and Peace , an ex-con pet-store clerk who plays sweet music to his animal charges, and the neighborhood "witch," a nearly blind woman who sees with her heart.
Part Frankie The Member of the Wedding , part Scout To Kill a Mockingbird , Opal brings her own unique and wonderful voice to a story of friendship, loneliness, and acceptance. Opal's down-home charm and dead-on honesty will earn her friends and fans far beyond the confines of Naomi, Florida.
Ages 9 and older. Like the conversations and mysteries held within this feminine tent, this sweeping piece of fiction offers an insider's look at the daily life of a biblical sorority of mothers and wives and their one and only daughter, Dinah. Told in the voice of Jacob's daughter Dinah who only received a glimpse of recognition in the Book of Genesis , we are privy to the fascinating feminine characters who bled within the red tent.
In a confiding and poetic voice, Dinah whispers stories of her four mothers, Rachel, Leah, Zilpah, and Bilhah--all wives to Jacob, and each one embodying unique feminine traits. As she reveals these sensual and emotionally charged stories we learn of birthing miracles, slaves, artisans, household gods, and sisterhood secrets.
Eventually Dinah delves into her own saga of betrayals, grief, and a call to midwifery. They told me things I was too young to hear. They held my face between their hands and made me swear to remember. In fact, it's been said that The Red Tent is what the Bible might have been had it been written by God's daughters, instead of her sons. Sister John of the Cross, a middle-aged nun cloistered in a Carmelite monastery in contemporary Los Angeles, languished for years in a spiritual drought--"her prayers empty and her soul dry"--until she suddenly received God's grace in the form of intense mystical visions.
So vivid have her visions become that they burn a kind of afterglow into her mind that she transcribes into crystalline and highly popular verse. The only downside is that they are accompanied by excruciating headaches that cause her to black out. The story hinges on Sister John's discovery that her visions are in fact the result of mild epileptic seizures. As she learns from her neurologist, temporal-lobe epilepsy commonly brings about "hypergraphia voluminous writing , an intensification but also a narrowing of emotional response, and an obsessive interest in religion and philosophy.
If this state were to last more than five seconds, the soul could not endure it and would have to disappear. The question she now faces is whether to go ahead with surgery--and risk obliterating both her spiritual life and her art--or cling to a state of grace that may actually be a delusion ignited by an electrochemical imbalance.
Using a very limited palette, Mark Salzman creates an austere masterpiece. The real miracle of Lying Awake is that it works perfectly on every level: on the realistic surface, it captures the petty squabbles and tiny bursts of radiance of life in a Los Angeles monastery; deeper down it probes the nature of spiritual illumination and the meaning and purpose of prayer in everyday life; and, at bottom, there lurks a profound meditation on the mystery of artistic inspiration.
Salzman made a highly auspicious debut in with Iron and Silk , a memoir of his years in China, and since then he has dramatically changed key in every book--most recently from the absurdist American suburban chronicle of Lost in Place to the artistic-crisis-cum-courtroom-drama novel The Soloist.
Lying Awake is quieter and more sober than Salzman's previous narratives, but it is also more accomplished, more thought-provoking, and more highly crafted. From Kirkus Reviews A touchy-feely finding-oneself memoir by a midlife woman who took a year off from her unfulfilling marriage and spent it in reflection by the sea. Anderson, a year-old journalist and author of children's books Harry's Helicopter,; , ; etc.
Comparisons with Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea are inevitable: both are by women concerned with the creative life, both express a closeness to nature at the seashore, a kinship with other life forms, a response to the ebb and flow of the tides, and both find metaphors in seashells. However, whereas Lindbergh has only a brief holiday at the beach and finds universal themes, Anderson's sojourn is protracted and her focus narrow.
Alone, she is self-reliant and self-conscious, adventurous, resourceful, and open. Not all her time is spent in solitude, however: she works in a fish market for extra money, finds a mentor and companion in the widow of psychoanalyst Erik Erikson, has house guests, including an old friend, a psychoanalyst, and a priest, hires on as short-term cook for a nephew's film crew, and entertains her husband, sons, and daughters-in-law over Memorial Day.
At the year's end, she is more certain of who she is and what she wants. She is ready to live once again with her husband, not in the old stale marriage, but in a new and still-to-be-defined one. A less-than-enthralling journey of self-discovery marred by more than a touch of self-congratulation.
All rights reserved. From Booklist Salzman just gets better and better. His memoir Iron and Silk was a hit, and his first novel, The Laughing Sutra , was funny and smart, but this book is a jewel. Reinhart Sundheimer was a child prodigy who could coax the very music of the gods from a cello even before he could touch the floor with his feet while seated. He spent his youth studying with an old master and performing around the world. But then, just as inexplicably as it arrived, the magic evaporated, and Sundheimer was left high and dry with no social life to speak of, no sexual experiences, an unsatisfying university job, and a profound sense of failure.
This miasma lasts well into his thirties until Sundheimer agrees, albeit reluctantly, to accept a Korean boy as a student. Shy little Kyung-hee is a genuine prodigy whose pure and intuitive response to music acts as a balm to Sundheimer's bruised and neglected soul. At the same time, Sundheimer is summoned to jury duty. He ends up assigned to a case that involves the murder of a Zen Buddhist master by a novice disciple. Sundheimer is forced to broaden his participation in life.
He must interact with his fellow jurors, including an attractive woman who tries to get him to loosen up, and consider weighty questions about the meaning of guilt, sanity, responsibility, and the tricky relationship between teacher and student. Slowly and self-consciously, Sundheimer attains a renewed sense of himself and discovers how to find peace in our jarring world.
This is a beautiful novel, a veritable concerto. Salzman's intonation is flawless, his themes infinitely ponderable, his symmetry and resolution captivating and uplifting. Donna Seaman --This text refers to the Hardcover edition. Resonates long after curtain closes , November 23, Reviewer: David Flood see more about me from seattle, wa United States Few books have touched me like this one.
It takes on the hard task of the difficult life shift we must all make at some time or another: when you've gone as far as you can with an art and have to turn to the task of sharing what you know with the next generation. But Salzman never moralizes, he puts you into the mind of a child prodigy -- now as an adult -- who must grow beyond the limited spotlight of the stage. Stalzman has a gift for drawing character, and writing so clearly that it goes into you with the rhythm and life of a well-delivered cello solo.
Seems I've rarely been able to stay with a book to its end these days, but this one held me from start to finish. I recommend this to anyone who loves music, loves good literature, and wants to enjoy the beauty and clarity that seems to come straight from the author's heart. Thank you, Mark. None of the music discussion comes across as academic or pedantic; it's woven gracefully into the novel.
The trial aspect of the book was not a typical fast-paced courtroom drama; it focused more on the parameters of the insanity defense as applied to a religious fanatic, and the trial is resolved in a decidedly undecided way that's all I'll say. The novel is more about the protagonist's personal experiences with music, relationships, and jury duty than it is about any underlying story.
The protagonist is likeable and, for the most part, very real. He is supposedly a virgin, which didn't come off as believable to me. Minor glitch, though. Overall, a good novel, particularly for a music lover, and a quick read. How many lives does Mark Salzman have? Each story has its own cast of characters beautifully realized, but most important - each aspect of this tripartite novel is told with such informed authority that imagining the author in anything but an autobiographical mode is next to impossible.
Just as in his previous novel LYING AWAKE which dealt with the inner thoughts of a cloistered nun, Salzman here shows us he has a thorough understanding of music, music making, and the sociology and philosophy of our court system and our education system. Not that he stops at reportage. It is simply his depth of knowledge about everything he writes make his novels deeply committed and inspiring.
But it is the loving manner of relating his tale that gets us there, almost without knowing we've arrived. A fine book to encourage a whole town Pasadena to read and share as is the goal here. Well worth anyone's time. The story revolves around a music professor, Reinhart Sundheimer, who as a child was an acclaimed cellist. He has been unable to play professionally ever since he became overly focused on pitch.
Despite his best efforts, he can never produce a note that is absolutely perfect no one can , and his playing has lost its spontaneity and fluidity. Clearly depressed by his perceived failure, he has led an extraordinarily isolated and lonely life for years, without even a pet to keep him company. Then two things happen to propel him out of his rut - he is chosen to be a juror in a murder trial, and is asked to give cello lessons to a young Korean boy who is clearly exceptionally gifted.
The murder trial exposes him to a whole new group of people whose lives do not revolve around classical music. It also forces him to question and re-question his beliefs about motivation as he struggles to decide whether the defendant in the trial was insane when he committed the crime.
Likewise his cello student, whose parents would prefer he acquire a skill that would be useful in the family's laundry business, helps him get beyond his narrow focus and see his own childhood in a fresh light. This is a complex story, and Salzman does a good job of weaving the past and present, and amusingly contradictory scenes of Reinhart's life into a comprehensive whole. The one problem I had was with Reinhart's sudden and rather unbelievable catharsis at the top of a mountain Mt.
While the sudden insights into the nature of his failure as a cellist, his inability to form lasting and intimate relationships with women and the importance of his work are well prepared for, up until this point Salzman's character has shown very little self-insight.
He has related the events in his life, and talked about the unhappiness and confusion they have caused him, but he seems clueless when it comes to the cause. Even granted the compelling circumstances that have forced him to see his life in a different light, it's hard to believe that Reinhart would hike to the top of a mountain and put all the pieces of his psychological dilemma together in one evening. Moreover, there were many times in the story when I expected Reinhart to put two and two together, but he doesn't.
As a result, there is a clear break in the book between life before the mountain and life after. Life before is all about "showing," and life after is all about "telling. I found this very unsatisfying and couldn't help but suspect that some higher up in the publishing world told Salzman his story was getting a little long and he should wrap things up. As all writer's know, telling is never as satisfying as showing, and it's a shame that Salzman didn't take the time and space to give us an ending that lived up to the promise of the rest of the book.
Around the World in Eighty Days. This is Verne's classic story of the trip of Phileas Fogg who is obsessed with time , Passeportout, Aouda, and Detective Fix around the world on a wager. The book is filled with beautiful time and space imagery throughout I would bet that one could write an entire thesis on all the time and space references in the novel.
Fogg bets his fellow club members that he can circumnavigate the globe in a mere eighty days. He leaves immediately with his valet Passeportout and is pursued by Detective Fix, who thinks he is a bank robber. Through many adventures, including the rescue of Aouda from immolation, they all return to London.
Interestingly, a few years later, after a number of improvements had been made in railways and roads, a U. But, she didn't rescue a Hindu princess! It should be noted, however, that one has to be very careful concerning the translations of this novel. There are some terrible ones being sold. Perhaps that's the reason for the few poor comments by earlier reviewers. There is an excellent translation by William Butcher that appeared in Review from Amazon. In An Hour Before Daylight , the former president tells the story of his rural boyhood, and paints a sensitive portrait of America before the civil rights movement.
Carter describes--in glorious, if sometimes gory, detail--growing up on a farm where everything was done by either hand or mule: plowing fields, "mopping" cotton to kill pests, cutting sugar cane, shaking peanuts, or processing pork. He also describes the joys of walking barefoot "this habit alone helped to create a sense of intimacy with the earth" , taking naps with his father on the porch after lunch, and hunting with slingshots and boomerangs with his playmates--all of whom were black.
Carter was in constant contact with his black neighbors; he worked alongside them, ate in their homes, and often spent the night in the home of Rachel and Jack Clark, "on a pallet on the floor stuffed with corn shucks," when his parents were away. However, this intimacy was possible only on the farm. When young Jimmy and his best friend, A. In a fucking room. All YOU need is love. Who ate my chocolate covered coffee beans? I haz cat visionz. I have actually never had the opportunity to engage in such a glorious conversation.
Flight has never been one of my fancies. Good artists copy, great artists steal. I heard that somewhere. I have twice in my life stolen a book, both times at a place of commerce. It is entirely by coincidence that each one was by John Updike. Two years separated the acts of thievery. The first occurred some time in ; at a chain bookstore still very much in business, I lifted a copy of Rabbit, Run. Then, in the summer of , while visiting a friend in Atlanta, I pilfered a copy of Of the Farm from a Borders.
Neither time was it my specific intention to rob the still-living Mr. Updike of his due royalties; it just so happened that when I was taken by the mad whim to steal, it was something by John Updike I wanted. Speaking of Updike, it just so happens that this morning, while book shopping on Amazon, I purchased a copy of the recently reissued Couples.
It was either this or Rabbit, Run that was the first thing I read by the man either seven or eight years ago. You see, I had previously read RR prior to stealing it. I also had previously read Of the Farm prior to stealing that one, as well.
The penicillin cleared it up. Wait, is this about question 5 again? That tells you something about the creative process. XXV Yes. ZZVI It depends. Not from a licensed bookseller. The fools! If they really cared, they would wring your scraggly neck like a chicken until you handed it over. They never do. My identity is a misrepresentation. Frankly, I think your insistence on the truth is in very poor taste.
Why all these cloying and ingratiating platitudes? Publish or be damned. She already gave birth to all my words, watched them grow up, and sent them to a fabulous university where they all impressed everyone. No, my youth was an arid wasteland watered with other peoples fantasies.
As far as T-shirt stainage goes, I am quite particular about my clothes. I am also preternaturally cautious about spilling body fluids. Some moron spilled olive oil on my favourite shirt on the tube and I stifled the urge to gauge her eyes out with my thumbs — her boyfriend was some sort of man-mammoth so I reconsidered.
It still bugs me though. On neither of them did I feel the need to record my typing speed. As I fall in love suddenly and without warning, and as it usually lasts only long enough for me to enjoy the effects of hopeless pining I would have to say, in the physical sense yes.
As for the rest, my computer just crash dumped on my full and deliciously witty answers. There was a lengthy and hilarious anecdote in there about me forcing a group of English Language students to solve a murder mystery Jessica Fletcher-stylee as well as the key to my soul through the medium of poetry.
The above was all I could remember. Where are the little boxes for the blue or black ink X marks so I can answer your questions in a binary fashion? Yes 2. Yes, of course. No 4a. Yes 5. William Gaddis 6. William Gaddis 7. Riddley Walker 8. At this stage I cant find any books amoung the creeping chaos of books. I suffer somewhat No, but I did smash up a large collection of red wine bottles and spend my first minutes of wakefulness looking for the wound that had bled all over my t-shirt I literally vomit words E.
Neither I was too drunk on the brandy he put in my bottle to remember anything What sort of rambling nonsense is this? Whenever Dunno I was always blind drunk when it happened More than you Bring it on Never they are my only true friends 22a. No Xxiii. B Yyiv. My shoes do Xxv. Here Xxvii. Always preferred the stones Aggravated assault Have you heard of editing? No Yes I assume he had donated it. Then my mother stole it from me. I am not neurotypical, no, although I have no diagnosis.
If you can give it, I can take it. And only in times of great distress. I try to tell my parents that I was wrong and they were right whenever it comes to mind these days. Every time I pick up the cell phone. What other utility would people accept such poor service from and pay so much for?
Why do people always want you to look at their surgical scars? I like to think and think, and then try to work backwards through the train of thoughts to see what led to what. But only small things, like a pot brownie, or a koozie, or picking up a camera and taking a picture of my friend and me with it and leaving it there for them to wonder who were those bitches in that picture. This felt more like stealing when cameras all used film. I took the collected works of Lewis Caroll and Identity by Milan Kundera from the library and never returned them.
Eliot from my brother. Sure 5. I would probably say that I have favorite books and favorite writers, but none of my favorite books are by my favorite writers. Milan Kundera 7. Where the Wild things Are 8. Who says I have left my shambolic youth behind? Are you neurotypical or do you somewhat suffer? Hate whiskey E. Whatever He just clipped my fingernails and read me Dr. Seuss I hate numbers.
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Definitely the latter 19! I usually had this dream that a friend and I cut off our hands and tried to sell them on the sidewalk Every single damn minute of my life I waste trying to master them 22a.
You would best describe yourself as a a petulant phony b a monomaniacal fraud c the son of Zeus d a Narcissistic douche bag e the ghost of my last furby YYIV. Me ow d Charmykins is somewhat smaller than the doll with the eggshell dress. What do you see when you turn out the light? I only know that I have borrowed several books and not returned them. How much time do you have? Do you think I might find you attractive? Can I see a photo? I had kind of an uptight youth.
Who among us does not suffer? I have not. I do not break things unless I absolutely cannot help it. My grandparents lived many hundreds of miles away, I almost never saw them outside the presence of a parent. It is only okay to eat large amounts of sour cream if it is added to borscht or perogies.
The bitch who sold me the popcorn, although she actually seems like a pretty nice person just trying to make it through one more shift at a thankless job. It died a little when I learned my partner of seven years had been engaged to marry another man for what turned out to be the last four months of our relationship, and then completely when my next partner, whom I had been seeing off and on for three years and would wind up being, still, half a decade later, the person I have loved more than I have ever loved anyone, to the point where I sometimes wonder if I have the capacity for love, or even real caring, left in me left me for another man because he makes enough money to buy her a house, and I do not.
And probably never will. I have been aware, almost constantly and on a conscious level, of my own mortality since I had a brush with suicide in One of my brows has a scar, and though it was not caused by worry, it does itch from it, sometimes. But I was plagued by nightmares of my stepfather being entombed by stick people in a coffin that looked like a giant Duracell brand battery, and then buried alive in the purple, plasticine-like ground dotted by stick-drawing trees.
They were night terrors that I would sometimes be stuck in as much as half an hour after waking up, unable to escape them as the totality of my reality, and to this day I can taste pennies and smell piss from the terror that rises up from the mere echo of them. Mostly d , but sometimes also a and b. I used to watch this cartoon about c when I was a kid, even though it was actually made for kids, like, two generations older than me, and I always wanted to be able to put on a magic ring that, for whatever I reason I kept in my belt instead of wearing all the time, and be super strong like c and get to hang out with little centaurs and such who had funny names and played pan flutes.
Maybe let me get back to you on that. Foxy, and zero. When his soul slips from his carcass he will have unexpectedly for him, no doubt have stopped traveling at speed, and there will be a millisecond, perhaps a unit of time even smaller, when he is not moving at all the forces in fact pushing each other backwards, even if not equal, a mosquito would for one infinitesimal moment of its life quite literally dent an iron locomotive at the moment of contact, as rigid and immovable as Gibraltar , before the immutable laws of physics resume and his body is torn asunder.
I tend to dream about very pedestrian things. I have frequent nightmares about ex-lovers morphing into people I know, and am attracted to, but deep down believe will never find me interesting enough to connect with any meaningful way, physically or spiritually. I have stolen and pilfered, but I also have to admit that sometimes I cheat. Like just now, I looked up the answer to your riddle on Google. I should say that I feel bad about it, because I like puzzles, but mostly what I like about them is finding out the answers.
Your mileage may vary. It was my favourite book and I had to have it. Normally I return books that I borrow from friends, keep ones I borrow from my grandmother. I make them up ZZVI. I realize that this reply is entirely out of place on this page, that biblioklept is wildly popular and the sole topic at dinner tables everywhere. Everyday I mourn my own stupidity, but can only reflect that I will feel the same about myself in 10 years time.
I have no such memory- but I did once sit in the front seat of the car with a bowl of green vomit while he drove. As an adult I recurringly dream that I have to leave this moment but cannot find anything suitable to wear. I had to look that up. Thanks for the picture, Wikipedia. I had my eyes open and everything. I often dream that I can swim through air.
The press attention would be unbearable. The only book I remember stealing was a copy of the I Ching. No kidding. I signed it out and, you know…just never went back. Funny, that. Because my favorite book is not by Colette. I think my favorite book is Heart of Darkness. Anyway, I keep rereading it. But I love you. Better now actually—no, this is quite serious. At nearly age 50 turning 49 in four days I am riskier than ever and very happy about that.
If the coffee machine does its thing each morning, I can forgive all the rest. So, not often. The whole thing went really, really well for a first time for both of us, actually. But then, the days afterward were tough for everyone. She was hungry, and me with no milk.
We tried everything but since i have actually written about it elsewhere ad nauseum I will cut to the chase: a desperate night in the wee hours, just her and me and the recalcitrant breast. And my poor husband looking on helpless.
Open Your Eyes. She did. She briefly forgot her hunger, I briefly forgot my shame in not being able to nourish her, and briefly we simply saw one another. And she nursed. I failed to return two books that I had to read for school. The first was my treasured Penguin paperback copy of Macbeth, which I insisted on keeping as a reminder of my first throes of passion with Shakespeare. It suggests that I am likely to be insincere, which is not in my personality.
James Joyce. Possibly Milan Kundera or someone like that depending on the company. James Joyce! They do even though they only ever felt like an aftertaste of a youth which had vanished before it ever came into being. This is probably the most satisfying way to be, ultimately.
Never a mirror, although I did punch an LCD computer monitor and damge it beyond repair about five years ago. After a love — yes. After all love — no. I remember more the dessicated cracks of his skin soaking up his aftershave or the look of pride when he tended to his prized tomatoes.
I have been known to polish off an entire tub, using plain Pringles as a form of spoon. Not any more. When can you come? It morphed into anxiety a long time ago. The bad dreams were normally about roadworks and the Welsh language, and the bedwetting was probably unconnected.
This is why I have become some sort of luddite albeit one who owns a mobile phone, a laptop computer, a television, a hi-fi, a portable music player and many other recent technological innovations. I know none of the words to any of the old songs. A strange post-modern hotel in northern Sweden. I think most of the other things are just ways of sublimating our yearning for love anyway.
Were this a real test, I would have just started scribbling on the paper in lieu of being able to formulate a serious answer. A strange substance which seems to fill the room more than is apparent when it is illuminated. Sort of. I feigned interest when my grandmother showed me her gallstones. I do, but in a different way. In these fantasies, my body is not present and rather than something flying through the air, I am the air, usually being pushed through a valley by a current of wind.
When you think about it, everything is stolen. Is it possible to be original? Is it a towel? I was a very young child. I fell in love with a book I had borrowed from the library. It was English, and about a bear, or maybe a teddy bear. I hid it under my mattress and hoped the issue of its return would never come up. My mother found it and took it back to the library. It was very overdue. I always saw this attempted theft as completely justified and indeed not really theft at all, as opposed to when I picked a peppermint scented marker up off the classroom floor and was eaten up by guilt because I made no attempt to locate the rightful owner.
Yes, but not for profit. All rights reserved. Neither of these approaches is a highly successful strategy for attracting the opposite sex. Under the Frog, by Tibor Fischer. More like madeleines. Oh, I certainly lean towards suffering. But then that seems to be neurotypical among people I know. I did punch a wall once.
One of the hardest things about growing up — really growing up — is to understand that not everyone has had the same life experiences you have. It is wonderful and especially appropriate when you realize that those nachos were just an excuse for a sour cream conveyance anyway.
I would own up for the sake of poor Mr. Fluffernutter III. He does suffer so when overexcited. I remember in grade 4 we had a contest to see who in our class could read the most books in one term. I read so many that I was accused of cheating. So extrapolating from that, quite a lot. How bizarre. No, not at all. I just used to sleep with the covers over my head every night to protect me from the imminent threat of alien abduction, like all normal children.
You would best describe yourself as a a petulant phony b a monomaniacal fraud c the son of Zeus d a Narcissistic douche bag. It freaks my parents out. Northwest of Deepwood Motte and Winterfell. Well it certainly helps. Although I would also think food, water, etc. John Dewey as in… what, you win him as a prize?
Then again, you do write a blog on books and other various artsy fartsy things. Society only works, insofar as it does work, because we keep some things to ourselves. Scars are badass. I have never understood the fascination with flying, actually.
When people are asked what superpower they would have if they could choose one, why do so many people choose the ability to fly? Teleportation, for example, would be much more useful. Plagiarism is wrong. Wow, are there people who actually responded to all that? Well, OK. And Les Miserables comes to mind as my favorite. And skipping to the last question, so long. I have. They were in the middle of transitioning all the files and I somehow was able to evade the system.
Ask away. If you feel so inclined to, sure. I just ask for anonymity. I broke a mirror when I was seven, so I should be a few years out of the seven year cycle. My grandpa never cradled me. One was dead for years before I was born, the other thousands of miles away. I only saw him twice.
Sour cream is disgusting. My perspective of human love is what John Green said: I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly and then all at once. Not in me. We all die. If this fact should worry me, how can I enjoy life? Setting of The Most Dangerous Game? I imagine that there will be less legal trouble if I end up assaulted than if I had possession of Mr.
Life is about appropriating? I moved away, and took the book with me. I still visit my parents and comb through their book collection, seeing what looks like a good read. A little, but I kind of like that in a survey. More people I find have heard of Salman Rushdie, so I use him a lot.
All-time — Salman Rushdie, at the moment — Michael Chabon. Turns out they were better than I thought. Good god yes. And sometimes like cigarettes. I never actually wear my favourite t-shirts, because the thought of ruining them in any way the above way included makes me slightly neurotic. I have shattered two mirrors in my life, that I remember. Probably 12, because I get up every 30 seconds to go pee.
My granddad did not cradle me much, his arthritic hands were used far more for gardening. I remember his bluish fingers disappearing into garden gloves and then those gloves disappearing into the garden and growing ridiculous amounts of amazing things. Of course, every day it is acceptable. She looks as depressed as I feel when I go to the movies. I would much prefer you to come over and do the above-mentioned rather than admit I was wrong to pretty much anybody.
Also, my teeth could use an objective cleaning. I think it married one of my dreams and they moved to a castle in Ireland, which I am not invited to. But, I would probably venture a guess of about 3. Of course it does. What am I, a vampire? No, but I did have a recurring nightmare that I found my jelly sandals near the edge of the ocean and it was because I had drowned. I think I was a ghost. And I miss my jelly sandals.
Every day. That is the single most amazing experience that I have read about today, and my life has had no such meaningful situation that can compare. I am sad. I know all the Everly Brothers song lyrics and they wrote all the songs, I believe.
I doubt she would know what a polar bear is. I feel like aggravated assault would be the better choice here, since you threatened to brush my teeth earlier and that seemed pretty great to me. And the riddle sounds like my kindergarten teacher. I had a mole removed once, and I was told several times that it was like an iceberg, bigger underneath the skin.
That damn thing almost sunk my hair. Who sends real checks to the electric company? I have an imaginary crosshair on everyone, just to make sure they behave. And yes, I am a thief every time I walk through the bulk foods section of the grocery store.
They say no hands, but how are you really supposed to know what the product tastes like? What was the question…. No, my happy ghost has taken over and I am actually watching that annoying medium from New Jersey. Learn more about this award here:. Quite a few came into my position from a volunteer gig at a local, Friends of the Library warehouse. A few titles just remain on my bookshelves because the owner never reclaimed them or I accidently marked them up. Social anxiety, agoraphobia, chronic depression, bipolarity, crippling insecurity, and sever halitosis.
I punched a window once. I was In retrospect, the memory reminds me of that scene in Ghost. I only go for see-through spirits and most of my typing consists of cursor-blinking hypnosis. I guess I would need to believe in love to say for certain. I might have a follow up in fifty years. I only remember the washcloth between my toes at bath time, the self-conscious butt-wiping moments, and the wormy way his tongue quivered around an ice-cream cone.
My brows are just fine, thank you. They always weave together with the passing of time. They knit a uni and I pluck them into separation. How did you know? Grandma, is that you? I blurted out hideous disgust, covered my face, and ran away. Sorry mom. Last night I skated across blacktop like it was ice until I was thrown awake by a shard of glass in the ball of my barefoot.
From a shop in which I worked. A few classics. A few modern. Both fiction and nonfiction. Pilfered from commerce. Victimless crime. You will not make me feel guilty for this. I may even have lief in question 3.
I am much too shy and insecure to exhibit anything and only buy paperbacks. Seems like a weird synesthesia. But my memories are the major contributor to my crushing inhibition and paralysis in the face of future expectations and opportunities. Never drank a substantial amount of whiskey.
Never attempted much writing after drinking. Though I can embarrass myself with rapid fire commenting on internet message boards so I would assume quite a lot. I remember my deceased grandpa though. Because neither is true. So sad. I believe people believe in love at first sight. The second thing. I do that all the time. It would be nice to have a partner in crime. I also hate my parents so edgy.
Decimated by nihilism and simultaneously dropped voluntarily to avoid comparisons with hipsters. Maybe No, but I experienced a velociraptor invasion and of my school and the usual paralysis or show motion in event of danger. Now all I get are sex dreams. My subconscious was permitted to be more imaginative before puberty. Whenever I have something important to do. Only with that, and there being a strong correlation between our cultural perceptions, will it ever be meaningful to me. I hope you regret it as I will after answering these questions.
Please rethink this one. I keep my iPad by my bed to record such ideas which also helps relieve the stress of college, work, future, family etc that torment my mind between dreams. It conflicts with any sensible appeal for brevity. Production comes from consumption and vice versa and in most cases independent invention vs diffusion is too difficult to disentangle.
Thankfully doing so is not important. Finally, maybes aye; maybes naw. One was from a corporate bookstore, because I wanted it. The latter from a used bookstore I was visiting in the small town where my pal lives. The bookstore owner was kind condescending, and the prices were ridiculous. Said copy was shredded with pages falling out. Anyway, once I saw it I knew it was meant to have it. I really dislike collecting stuff.
There may be some purposeful obfuscation, though, and horrid typos. Dennis Cooper. I go through little bursts. Plus, really, my living writer pals in the Bay Area are maybe truthfully my favorite authors, because they call me to hang out, take that Joan Didion, you ole stupid head. Okay, maybe The Stranger because it was my first favorite book as a tween.
I hate collecting books and prefer to go to the public library. I was too responsible, sensitive, competitive, and square as a youth. I was much too serious and despite mood swings, I think I was very much throughly under the control of my short-sighted ambition. I am too poor to go to the doctor for anything basically, so thankfully no one can tell me how aberrant I am or vice versa.
No, that sort of thing would ruin my cello playing and make my landlord mad. Probably 20 or I am not a very good typist. Hell, I could go for a drink right now. My grandfathers lived quite far away from us. Dude is this some kind of Cormac McCarthy moment?
Yes, as needed. Sour cream is delicious. I prefer cottage cheese. I recommend diced green onion and horseradish mixed in. When watching a movie intended to horrify hormonal teenagers, you identify most with: a the bitch who goes crazy and screams and loses it and ends up dying or the monster. I love gross out movies. I believe in the persuasive power of my horniness at times, though. We could have some tea and then makeout afterward…?
Like [ average a month x 12] x 20 somethingish. Plus some kind of total for college, ug, who cares. Not really. Not terribly often. My story involves feeling sort of tired and overwhelmed, yet simultaneously, like, everyone is being a total prick to me. The end. You would best describe yourself as c the son of Zeus and d a Narcissistic douche bag however I am a lady. My tongue tends toward a pasty shade of undead white. I only remember the intros and the choruses.
Then I kind of hum the other bits. Oh John Dewey definitely. I kind of missed out on reading him in my philosophy classes, but he got referred to a lot. Two trains separated by miles. When you finally fall asleep. Oh yeah. Why, are you going to turn me in?
After that I lose count. But it does disturb my bowels. My dreams always end the same way — with both Winston Churchill and Mariska Hargitay applauding me. I thought I was the only one that had that experience. You would best describe yourself as a a petulant phony b a monomaniacal fraud c the son of Zeus d a Narcissistic douche bag — All and None of the Above. Where are you and how do you know so much about my bear? My relatives love to show me the results of their elective surgery.
Are we related? And if we are, is it something you care to admit? This whole thing is really about my vague fear of suddenly being grabbed and stuffed with crabmeat. Not at all. Honesty is the most difficult feat of all. Every book I buy would be impressive on my coffee table or bookshelf, but any visitor to realize that would be an instant dear friend. No, the offal of my youth tastes just like the excrement it was, with one small, flawless diamond in the repulsive, gooey center.
Depending upon which source you believe, I am bipolar, epileptic, chronically depressed, plagued with severe social anxiety disorder, or mildly, misanthropically sociopathic. Or a genius. Whatever the true definition is…yes, I suffer! I hope that I have by now paid off the 27 years of bad luck I remember accruing.
Other mirrors may have been broken in the twilight zone of my blurred memory. My Christian Death tshirt was definitely sullied with bloodstains. As were all of my diaries. Only then does one comprehend the true magnitude of the Blackness in the duality of this world. He had a truly horrible life.
The producer who is laughing his way to the bank whilst struggling with the existential torture of witnessing the decay of humankind. Especially my parents, who had to put up with my insufferable extended adolescence. Thousands over the past 40 years, but I have no real idea.
Death is my only true friend, the only certainty. My worst childhood nightmare was in black and white, when I was 10 years old, and involved a masked, hooded figure beheading a corpse in a hospital. Strong stuff, no need for embellishment! You would best describe yourself as a a petulant phony b a monomaniacal fraud c the son of Zeus d a Narcissistic douche bag daughter of the mating between Zeus Yahoweh? Grimaldi the Clown? Thank heavens, no. I dream about packing a never-ending amount of belongings, desperately poignant and sentimental, into bags much too small.
Over and over again, in every imaginable situation. Philosophical Investigations. They taste like morning breath. My grandfather would stand above my cereal bowl and chop bananas into it, though he knew I hated bananas. Yes, anytime. Food is for eating. Humility is good and difficult to learn.
Still around. Mostly when I wake up and realize I can go back to sleep. My tomb. Both, if simultaneous. Systematic derangement of the senses. Gimme a dolalr. Praise be. Think about your death every day and spend time outside. No to that last question. I was instantly captivated. I answered, oh, I think about 22 questions when my Life suggested I pay attention to something, well, more serious in nature. I must confess, I was suspicious I might be going down the rabbit hole following your questions to the chamber of fools so I thought it might be a blessing.
My survey says you broke the tedious boredom I fell victim to last evening, and I enjoyed the little magic mushroom ride that compelled me to snap out of blah land. Nice blog, and that questionnaire phew , how would you like to see a blog set up to promote New to me Authors and their books? Too many to count. What else are these for?
Nothing beyond the pale. Preferences change, but now possibly Kosinski. Moneyball, for extraliterary reasons. Being and Time by Heidegger. Encyclopedia Britannica version of Great Books. No, but I do often look back in anger. I suffer typically. Despite my disfigurement I still have not taken revenge on a mirror. Slightly faster than my vodka drunk.
I recall. Then he dropped me during the last leg of the horse races. No comment. That time is when you anticipate an ending of some sort. Parents need self-esteem. I choose the former. I misplaced it somewhere in my adolescence. Roughly 63, No, but thank you for reminding me. My nightmares were more abstract than that.
I have low expectations of them, so rarely. Once, I had a hard time breathing, to the point where I was screaming, and everyone around me was in pain, to the point where my screaming and their pain caused them to smack me repeatedly. They would dangle me upside down by the heel and smack me until I stopped screaming. My mother was in ferocious pain, and would not stop crying. But after some time, I breathed normally and stopped screaming, and my mother stopped weeping, and our mutual frustrations had only momentarily ceased before the years to come.
Though Zeus does not capitulate to paternity tests. Not easily. Doo doo, dah dahh. I prefer justice. Both instrumental, Dewey wins slightly. Your senselessness is also your most charming trait. A half-forgotten image of a lamp. Sure, why not. Came to Believe from an AA meeting. I still have it. I had no money; I needed belief. Found The Recognitions and joke is on me and the ex cos I was hooked and bad.
Loved it and gobbled up all subsequent, in order. I do not suffer somewhat tho I do suffer some fools. See Q. Hell yeah. Better that way. Of course not. After he quit smoking he took up macrame and woodcarving. He had black hair.
You too? I love it. Yes it is, especially when you think you are coming down with a cold. I try never to identify. Yes but only because it has been so heavily advertised, not from personal expereince. It was beaten out of me by student loan debt.
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|The fabulous life of beyonce and jay-z torrent||I screamed. I have done less with more. I think it married one of my dreams and they moved to a castle in Ireland, which I am not invited to. After getting over the shock and humiliation of being beaten by a girl, Jess begins to think Leslie might be okay. I dropped it because the handle broke in my hand, OK? Gimme a dolalr. The story hinges on Sister John's discovery that her visions are in fact the result of mild epileptic seizures.|
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|Mark salzman the soloist torrent||Answer any or all questions in the Comments section, or for a personalized, in-depth analysis, send your completed survey to biblioklept. My subconscious was permitted to be more imaginative see more puberty. Do you intend to lie or misrepresent yourself on this survey? I do more to misrepresent myself by providing answers to these questions, any answers at all, than the answers themselves. The Rings of Saturn. No, the offal of my youth tastes just like the excrement it was, with one small, flawless diamond in the repulsive, gooey center. Due to our first meeting through my blinds, I thought it apt to name him Spooky.|
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