You’ve heard a similar “request” yelled during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, right?
Please don’t respond with THOSE kinds of photos. This is a PG-rated blog.
Instead, Nick (Call of the Siren) and I want to see the books on your shelves. We want to take a dip into your psyche and expose your literary soul to the world. Call it a “Reader’s Rorschach.”
Now post away and leave a message on Nick’s or my blog so we can drop by and wander at our leisure among your titles. And just to prove that Nick and I are not just voyeurs, we’ll be posting photos of our own shelves this weekend.
Thanks for indulging our curiosity! Who knows, maybe we’ll throw you a necklace or two.
So there I was, demonstrating against having my phone records snatched, when some guy from the CIA with a PhD and a white coat carted me off for a little “VNG.” Continue reading
If ever in the small hours of the night, when everyone else is either snoring or rolling over, you find yourself waking, spinning into the darkness, Continue reading
Once again, I dip into Woolf’s writings and find treasure, of the wry variety. Here’s the opening paragraph from her essay, “Street Haunting,” collected in The Death of the Moth and Other Essays:
“No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a lead pencil. But there are circumstances in which it can become supremely desirable to possess one; moments when we are set upon having an object, an excuse for walking half across London between tea and dinner. As the foxhunter hunts in order to preserve the breed of foxes, and the golfer plays in order that open spaces may be preserved from the builders, so when the desire comes upon us to go street rambling a pencil does for a pretext, and getting up we say: “Really I must buy a pencil,” as if under cover of this excuse we could indulge safely in the greatest please of town life in winter–rambling the streets of London.”
Now look at what Woolf has focused her roving halogen beam on in the first two sentences? Continue reading
Leave it to the BBC to store bits of Virginia Woolf’s psyche for us mere mortals to sift through on a whim. The broadcast of Woolf’s essay, “Craftsmanship,” was first heard on April 20, 1937. Five years later, it was published in a book called “The Death of the Moth, and other essays,” the year after she walked into the Ouse River with rocks in her pockets.
In “Craftsmanship,” Woolf insists that “words never make anything useful” and “tell nothing but the truth,” contradicting both meanings of “craft” in the dictionary. She says that words “hate being useful, that it is their nature not to express one simple statement but a thousand possibilities…”
Further into the essay, she says that “a useful statement is a statement that can mean only one thing. And it is the nature of words to mean many things.” Hence, words combined into statements cannot be useful. Writing is not useful.
Should I just end my life now?