"She could feel his hand on the back of her neck, the other arm around her waist, holding her to him. Her head lay against his chest; she could hear his heart beat. She blinked in the darkness, her eyes wet. She had not been held, not by anyone, not since she was a little child."
- Longbourne, Baker
YOU SEEM TO HAVE A FETISH FOR
Reading. (IT'S OK, WE WON'T TELL ANYONE)
Showing posts with label Reading. Show all posts
Friday, July 21, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
How To Break Up
I've been reading quite a bit lately, catching up on the last eight months, one might say. Anyways, I'm currently reading three and a half books and the latest one I picked up is written by one of my once-upon-a-time favourite fiction writers, only this time it is non-fiction. I haven't been too happy with what I have been reading and a thorough review will be forthcoming, but I'm sitting on my bed cross-legged in my shorts after my shower and reading when I came across the following passage,which, upon reading I burst out laughing with a belly-aching laugh and fell off my bed.
"If I had wanted to end my marriage it would have been easier. I'd say, 'We need to talk.' Then, 'It's not you, it's me.' Or, 'I just cant do this any more' (the current favourite phrase from relationship-enders), and that would be it. I'd be free!"
- Making It Up As I Go Along, Marian Keyes
"If I had wanted to end my marriage it would have been easier. I'd say, 'We need to talk.' Then, 'It's not you, it's me.' Or, 'I just cant do this any more' (the current favourite phrase from relationship-enders), and that would be it. I'd be free!"
- Making It Up As I Go Along, Marian Keyes
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Friday, May 19, 2017
Love Story in a Cemetary
She stopped, and we set down the water. She looked over to a grave.
"He died last year," she said. In front of his grave was a lush flower garden. She bent down to pull a few weeds.
"We lived in a small apartment nearby," She said. "He always wanted to give me a garden." I told her I was sorry for her loss.
"Don't be, dear," she said. "I loved him enough to want him to go first. I was always better at handling the difficulties."
She smiled wide. "He was better at the lighter side of life. He may be gone but not everything is gone. He left me with enough good memories to see me through until it's my time."
— Paris Letters, Macleod
"He died last year," she said. In front of his grave was a lush flower garden. She bent down to pull a few weeds.
"We lived in a small apartment nearby," She said. "He always wanted to give me a garden." I told her I was sorry for her loss.
"Don't be, dear," she said. "I loved him enough to want him to go first. I was always better at handling the difficulties."
She smiled wide. "He was better at the lighter side of life. He may be gone but not everything is gone. He left me with enough good memories to see me through until it's my time."
— Paris Letters, Macleod
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Monday, February 22, 2016
Oh, Scrooge
"You fear the world too much," she answered, gently. "All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?"
"What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you."
She shook her head.
"Am I?"
"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made, you were another man."
"I was a boy," he said impatiently.
"Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you."
"Have I ever sought release?"
"In words. No. Never."
"In what, then?"
"In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight."
"What then?" he retorted. "Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you."
She shook her head.
"Am I?"
"Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made, you were another man."
"I was a boy," he said impatiently.
"Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are," she returned. "I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have thought of it, and can release you."
"Have I ever sought release?"
"In words. No. Never."
"In what, then?"
"In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of any worth or value in your sight."
— A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
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Monday, October 12, 2015
Poem of the Day: Longfellow - Endymion
Endymion
(Ballads and Other Poems 1842)
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes,--the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,--
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stayed so long?"
(Ballads and Other Poems 1842)
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes,--the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,--
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds,--as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,
"Where hast thou stayed so long?"
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Tuesday, February 04, 2014
Reading
If there is anything that has always been a constant for me, it has always been reading. Even before writing, which is sort of obvious when you think of it, since of course we learn to read before we write.
Reading has always been a thoroughly personal experience for me. Other than simply a relaxing pastime, which definitely it is, the process of reading (fiction, specifically) has always meant so much more. Perhaps, because I've always sought ways of evading reality (having had a not very pleasant childhood), and being an innate escapist, it's only natural that reading became my portal.
In one aspect, we could view reading as the way one simply forgets reality and escapes to other worlds to live vicariously through the characters. Interestingly however, I've realized that somewhere along the way, a different aspect of reading developed. Rather than superimposing upon my reality the more appealing fictional world, somehow my process of reading became such that reading only emphasized, highlighted and enhanced my reality.
Maybe that's simply the process of growing up. When you're young you are expected, and encouraged, to use the imagination to develop new worlds and make-believe stories. Then somehow while growing up, you aren't. 'Grow up, already': get your head out of the clouds, stop daydreaming, get your feet on the ground, face reality. That's growing up. And it makes sense, because the process of growing up entails assuming more responsibility, and to do so you can't be always in the twilight zone of imagination.
Growing, 'becoming an adult' means that you have to come to terms with reality, with your life. You need to face it head on, and not engender futile daydreams that would detract from your execution of what actually needs done. I'm hardly lecturing here, if that's the tone it seems; these are lessons I especially have had to learn, and am constantly being reminded when I tend to go emo and trail away in my own Lalaland.
What I have discovered is that what I enjoy most about reading now is that ability for an author to be able to speak to me, heart to heart. The ability to relate is what ranks highest (or at least up there with some other variables) for me in reading. One line a character utters could make the entire book for me. Hence, the process of reading is entirely too personal for me.
Which brings me to the point of reviewing books. I find myself hard-pressed to be able to write book reviews for amazing books because it is difficult for me to extract myself out of what had just happened while reading. To accurately review a book would mean that I need to extricate the many tangles and knots of the story out of myself, or else only attempt to describe to others who could not possibly understand my entire life. Rather, my whole being - because for some reason referring to 'life' seems lacking in what I am trying to explain, life seems to just mean the series of events occurring to make it up, almost distinct from me, or me-ness. I mean me, as a product of my life in conjunction with my cognitive and emotional self. And to simply write a review without this is difficult, if not entirely impossible.
Sometimes I want others to experience what I had in reading a certain book, so I recommend it. But this is also a bit tentative and shy on my side since I can't expect that another person with their own 'me' would be able to appreciate what I did in the same way. It also occurs to me that this process of sharing something one truly likes and appreciates is another medium for us to understand or learn more about one another. We could open to the thought of what and why exactly did this person like it, and rather than just the literal context of the plot, what is it that makes a person receptive to a certain theme or concept or mood. I guess that is how we sort of gauge where another person is on a mental frequency. You send out vibrations and they hit that person and bounce back and you absorb the return frequency to learn that person's aura. (If that went over your head, think of a bat and their sonar echolocation. No kids, I said bat, not Batman. Focus.)
This morning I get an update from Goodreads that another person had finished reading a book and rated it 5 stars. Why am I telling you this? Because I recommended said book to that person and THEY RATED IT 5 STARS. I mean, that's awesome - they liked a book I LOVE.
This book is coming out as a movie. At first I had huge, and I mean HUGE, misgivings about this news. Cmon, by now we all know 1. how absolutely screwed up books made into movies are, and also 2. how much I detest this happening. But apparently the trailer has been released and everyone is absolutely raving about how amazing the trailer is and how this movie will be absolutely great. And this is a "hey, wait" moment for me because it's not just anyone raving about the movie, it's like-minded book readers who really love the book just as I do, so it could be said that their comments have more credibility. At least, to me. I have yet to see this trailer.
In case you were wondering, the book in particular is The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green. It's a YA book, and yet there are so many wonderful things about it. It isn't a long read at all, and I would love for everyone to read this before they watch the movie.
Reading has always been a thoroughly personal experience for me. Other than simply a relaxing pastime, which definitely it is, the process of reading (fiction, specifically) has always meant so much more. Perhaps, because I've always sought ways of evading reality (having had a not very pleasant childhood), and being an innate escapist, it's only natural that reading became my portal.
In one aspect, we could view reading as the way one simply forgets reality and escapes to other worlds to live vicariously through the characters. Interestingly however, I've realized that somewhere along the way, a different aspect of reading developed. Rather than superimposing upon my reality the more appealing fictional world, somehow my process of reading became such that reading only emphasized, highlighted and enhanced my reality.
Maybe that's simply the process of growing up. When you're young you are expected, and encouraged, to use the imagination to develop new worlds and make-believe stories. Then somehow while growing up, you aren't. 'Grow up, already': get your head out of the clouds, stop daydreaming, get your feet on the ground, face reality. That's growing up. And it makes sense, because the process of growing up entails assuming more responsibility, and to do so you can't be always in the twilight zone of imagination.
Growing, 'becoming an adult' means that you have to come to terms with reality, with your life. You need to face it head on, and not engender futile daydreams that would detract from your execution of what actually needs done. I'm hardly lecturing here, if that's the tone it seems; these are lessons I especially have had to learn, and am constantly being reminded when I tend to go emo and trail away in my own Lalaland.
What I have discovered is that what I enjoy most about reading now is that ability for an author to be able to speak to me, heart to heart. The ability to relate is what ranks highest (or at least up there with some other variables) for me in reading. One line a character utters could make the entire book for me. Hence, the process of reading is entirely too personal for me.
Which brings me to the point of reviewing books. I find myself hard-pressed to be able to write book reviews for amazing books because it is difficult for me to extract myself out of what had just happened while reading. To accurately review a book would mean that I need to extricate the many tangles and knots of the story out of myself, or else only attempt to describe to others who could not possibly understand my entire life. Rather, my whole being - because for some reason referring to 'life' seems lacking in what I am trying to explain, life seems to just mean the series of events occurring to make it up, almost distinct from me, or me-ness. I mean me, as a product of my life in conjunction with my cognitive and emotional self. And to simply write a review without this is difficult, if not entirely impossible.
Sometimes I want others to experience what I had in reading a certain book, so I recommend it. But this is also a bit tentative and shy on my side since I can't expect that another person with their own 'me' would be able to appreciate what I did in the same way. It also occurs to me that this process of sharing something one truly likes and appreciates is another medium for us to understand or learn more about one another. We could open to the thought of what and why exactly did this person like it, and rather than just the literal context of the plot, what is it that makes a person receptive to a certain theme or concept or mood. I guess that is how we sort of gauge where another person is on a mental frequency. You send out vibrations and they hit that person and bounce back and you absorb the return frequency to learn that person's aura. (If that went over your head, think of a bat and their sonar echolocation. No kids, I said bat, not Batman. Focus.)
This morning I get an update from Goodreads that another person had finished reading a book and rated it 5 stars. Why am I telling you this? Because I recommended said book to that person and THEY RATED IT 5 STARS. I mean, that's awesome - they liked a book I LOVE.
This book is coming out as a movie. At first I had huge, and I mean HUGE, misgivings about this news. Cmon, by now we all know 1. how absolutely screwed up books made into movies are, and also 2. how much I detest this happening. But apparently the trailer has been released and everyone is absolutely raving about how amazing the trailer is and how this movie will be absolutely great. And this is a "hey, wait" moment for me because it's not just anyone raving about the movie, it's like-minded book readers who really love the book just as I do, so it could be said that their comments have more credibility. At least, to me. I have yet to see this trailer.
In case you were wondering, the book in particular is The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green. It's a YA book, and yet there are so many wonderful things about it. It isn't a long read at all, and I would love for everyone to read this before they watch the movie.
 |
| (Quote from The Fault in Our Stars) |
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