O Sylvia, Sylvia, with a dead box of stones and spoons, with two children, two meteors wandering loose in a tiny playroom, with your mouth into the sheet, into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, (Sylvia, Sylvia where did you go after you wrote me from Devonshire about rasing potatoes and keeping bees?) what did you stand by, just how did you lie down into? Thief — how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, the death we said we both outgrew, the one we wore on our skinny breasts, the one we talked of so often each time we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, the death that talked of analysts and cures, the death that talked like brides with plots, the death we drank to, the motives and the quiet deed? (In Boston the dying ride in cabs, yes death again, that ride home with our boy.) O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer who beat on our eyes with an old story, how we wanted to let him come like a sadist or a New York fairy to do his job, a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, and since that time he waited under our heart, our cupboard, and I see now that we store him up year after year, old suicides and I know at the news of your death a terrible taste for it, like salt, (And me, me too. And now, Sylvia, you again with death again, that ride home with our boy.) And I say only with my arms stretched out into that stone place, what is your death but an old belonging, a mole that fell out of one of your poems? (O friend, while the moon’s bad, and the king’s gone, and the queen’s at her wit’s end the bar fly ought to sing!) O tiny mother, you too! O funny duchess! O blonde thing!
“The hard air was still sulphurous, but they were both used to it. Round the near horizon went the haze, opalescent with frost and smoke, and on the top lay the small blue sky; so that it was like being inside an enclosure, always inside. Life always a dream or a frenzy, inside an enclosure.”—
“There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words. Your thought, even a bad one, while it is with you, is always more profound, but in words it is more ridiculous and dishonorable.”—Dostoevsky (via dryswallow) (via dostoyevsky)
“Reading is not simply an intellectual pursuit but an emotional and spiritual one. It lights the candle in the hurricane lamp of self; that’s why it survives. There are book clubs and book Web sites and books on tape and books online. There are still millions of people who like the paper version, at least for now. And if that changes—well, what is a book, really? Is it its body, or its soul? Would Dickens have recognized a paperback of A Christmas Carol, or, for that matter, a Braille version?”—Anna Quindlen, Reading Has a Strong Future, in Newsweek. (via thebronzemedal) (via paperbackgirl)
Today we would like to tip our hats to both Charlotte Brontë and John Donne! Though these two writers come from different time periods and approached their craft quite differently, they share perhaps the most intimate thing two people can share - their deathday!
Donne died on this day in 1631 of stomach cancer and remains one of the most notable metaphysical poets of history. Though most of Donne’s poetry was greatly influenced by the church and the various religious happenings of the time, much of his earlier work was quite satirical and sometimes erotic. Yes… you read that right. In fact, our favorite Donne poem remains “The Flea”, which if read between the lines is nothing more than a “line” to seduce his mistress into the boudoir! Classic Donne.
Brontë died on March 31st in 1855 of what was believed to be typhus. She is remembered as an extraordinary English novelist and poet most renowned for her novel Jane Eyre, which details the life of a young orphan turned governess who falls in love with a man way beyond her “station”. The book was highly criticized in it’s day for dark themes and underlying social criticisms of the time. If you’ve not read this classic, check it out!
So- today…we encourage our readers to fall in love with someone you aren’t suppose to and… if you find yourself in the position of seducing said person- give Donne’s poetic pick-up line a try!
“Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way. Vaguely she knew she was out of connection: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world.”—from Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
A hybrid novel, according to Alberto Hernández, can be seen as a hybrid image-text novel, not a children’s book, graphic novel/comic or gift book, but a book where written text and graphic devices such as illustration, photography, information graphics or typographic treatments may interject in order to hold a readers’ interest.
Have you seen Amelie? I was watching it today with mum and wondered if you had seen it before. If you have, then did you enjoy it? Audrey is also wonderful in A Very Long Engagement.
I have not seen Amelie but I’ve heard great things about it. I have seen A Very Long Engagement and it is one of my favorite movies. It’s rare to find movies made about the First World War, which is a time period that fascinates me, so it is not only a film about love but about the very real travails that people suffered during that specific war. I also love that Marion Cotillard is in the movie (as an assassin no less) and the cinematography is outstanding. I love that Audrey’s character she plays the tuba, that she doesn’t listen to everyone when they tell her to give up her search for the man she loves, that she is brave and vulnerable. That movie is spectacular on so many levels that it’s hard to explain. If I ever get the chance to watch Amelie or buy it on DVD, I certainly will. If it has Audrey Tatou in it, it must be worth watching!
“The bad thing about words is that they make us feel as if we were illuminated and understanding everything. But, when we turn and face the world, we see that reality is completely different from that which we discussed or heard.”—Paulo Coelho (via writerspad)
ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND by Lewis Carroll CHAPTER I (CONTD)
Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. `Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) `I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my…
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, `and what is the use of a…
Loving me with my shows off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons; and my feet, those two children let out to play naked. Intricate nubs, my toes. No longer bound. And what’s more, see toenails and all ten stages, root by root. All spirited and wild, this little piggy went to market and this little piggy stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes. Further up, my darling, the woman is calling her secrets, little houses, little tongues that tell you.
There is no one else but us in this house on the land spit. The sea wears a bell in its navel. And I’m your barefoot wench for a whole week. Do you care for salami? No. You’d rather not have a scotch? No. You don’t really drink. You do drink me. The gulls kill fish, crying out like three-year-olds. The surf’s a narcotic, calling out, I am, I am, I am all night long. Barefoot, I drum up and down your back. In the morning I run from door to door of the cabin playing chase me. Now you grab me by the ankles. Now you work your way up the legs and come to pierce me at my hunger mark
“If the truth must be told, he was just a little bit frightened of middle-and lower-class humanity, and of foreigners not of his own class. He was, in some paralysing way, conscious of his own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day.”—
from Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
Sounds like some right-wing extremists in our country right now!
Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love-affairs by the time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love connexion. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. And the men were so humble and craving. Why couldn’t a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself?
So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexion were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax. One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one’s privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a girl, one’s whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl’s life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connexions and subjections.
And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. They insisted on the sex thing like dogs.
“He had so very nearly lost his life, that what remained was wonderfully precious to him. It was obvious in the anxious brightness of his eyes, how proud he was, after the great shock, of being alive. But he had been so much hurt that something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone. There was a blank of insentience.”—
“It was finally becoming clear to her that love wasn’t about finding someone perfect to marry. Love was about seeing through to the truth of a person, and accepting all their shades of light and dark. Love was an ability.”—Tempt Me at Twilight, Lisa Kleypas (via thisismydancecard)
“Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.”—
I cannot believe this website exists. It is about the things that people find in used books. I’ve always been fascinated by this subject and have collected the different little trinkets that I’ve discovered in my secondhand books. You wouldn’t believe what some people press between the pages of a book; maybe it’s their attempt at not being forgotten.
I have a question about the D.H. Lawrence novel you posted earlier, what war is taking place in the setting of the novel?
It was published in 1928 so I would assume it is the First World War. I honestly haven’t read the book yet but posted it so I might read it online chapter by chapter. I just looked at the wikipedia page but didn’t see the war explicitly referenced but you might want to look there for more information. If anyone else knows for sure, please contact me!